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/. 

CH ARTERIS. 



A ROMANCE. 



MARY M. MELINE, 

AUTHOR OF “ MONTARGk's LEGACY,” “ IN SIX MONTHS.” 



PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1874. 












1 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 


TO 

MY FRIEND. 

" When adversities flow, 
Then love ebbs : but friendship standeth stiffly 
In storms. Time draws wrinkles in a fair 
Face, but addeth fresh colors to a fast 
Friend, which neither heat, nor cold, nor misery, 
Nor place, nor destiny, can alter or 
Diminish. O friendship ! of all things the 
Most rare, and therefore most rare, because most 
Excellent ; whose comforts in misery 
Are always sweet, and whose counsels in 
Prosperity are ever fortunate.” 


Washington, March 22, 1874. 


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CH ARTERIS. 


BOOK FIRST. 


CHAPTER I. 

“Hi! Shott, old fellow! Catch it, sir! Easy! tally- 
ho ! Why, did I wake you up, old boy?” 

The dog, a setter, with silken hair of a tawny color, 
and breast, feet, and tip of tail a dainty white, — larger 
than those of his breed generally are, — had been lying 
asleep at the speaker’s feet; and sleeping he had dreamed, 
for his paws were moved restlessly, and he whined and 
panted. At the sound of his master’s voice he was up in 
an instant, a little bewildered at first, but recognizing the 
situation immediately; in token of which, he planted his 
fore-paws upon the rustic seat and hung over the gentle- 
man who lay upon it, very much as if he would like to 
find a place alongside of him. 

“ There, there, you were not meant for a lap-dog, and 
cannot be looked upon as one for a moment! Down, 
sir !” 

The dog obeyed ; curled himself up again, with a long 
sigh, at his master’s feet; and doubtless was soon happy 
in his dreams of successful hunts once more. 

Guy Charteris arranged the cushions into a more con- 
venient prop for his head, and, sinking back upon them, 

.* \ 5 



6 


CHAR TER IS. 


replaced his cigar, and began to pull out the tangled curls 
of his brown hair, gazing in an abstracted mood at the 
peaceful heavens, where the moon, nearly full, lay like a 
pearl in a sea of sapphire. He was not strikingly handsome, 
but there was something very fascinating in his face, — 
something that made one trust him and love him almost 
unconsciously. In the full prime of life, he had all the world 
at his feet. A large fortune, a good old name, and a rank 
among the highest and best in the land, although he bore 
no title. Indeed, Charteris, of Charteris Manor, was a 
name and a family long, long before many a noble and 
titled one of the present day had been heard of. 

And Charteris Manor was a goodly heritage, situated in 
one of the fairest and most picturesque, regions of fair and 
picturesque Devonshire, the ocean-breakers tossing their 
white manes upon the beach, whose line of sand was all 
that divided them from the oaks and elms of the park at 
its western extremity. The manor-house had been built in 
the reign of bluff King Hal. Partly destroyed in that of 
the first James, it was rebuilt only to suffer again in the 
days of the Cavaliers ; for the Charteris of that time 
fought loyally for his king, and was, in his old age, one 
of the few whom that king’s son remembered when he 
came to his own. Rebuilt after the Restoration, in the 
architectural style of those days, since then, from time to 
time, a gable or a wing had been added, until, at the 
period at which our story opens, the original plan was lost. 

But whatever might have appeared incongruous, owing 
to these additions, was softened and toned down, in fact, 
concealed, by the luxuriant ivy, which, like to the charity 
which covereth a multitude of sins, had crept from base 
to roof, and, save that here a gable and there a tower 
crept out from its dark-green leaves, completely cloaked 
the gray stone walls. 


CHAR TER IS. 


7 


The house stood on a hill, surrounded on three sides 
by the trees of the park, which grew quite close to it, 
except in front, where an open space had been cleared 
for a carriage-sweep, and to afford sunlight for my lady’s 
flowers. • 

Back of the house, from the terrace at the end of which 
was Mrs. Charteris’ morning-room, the lawn sloped to a 
broad, rather shallow river, which, winding between low, 
wooded banks, made a wide detour, from east to west, 
and emptied into the sea, forming the boundary on the 
north between Charteris and Brandon Towers. A rail- 
road passed through a distant part of the estate to the 
south, and Charteris Station, about three miles away, was 
reached by a road from the park-gates, the distance thence 
to the mansion being nearly two miles. 

But the crowning glories of his life, in Guy Charteris’ 
own estimation, were his beautiful wife, as tenderly loved 
and as loving now as when eight years ago she first 
promised to be his, and his boy, the pride and darling of 
his heart. 

As he lay back there among his cushions, looking up 
into the calm night sky, if one of the fairies, who, accord- 
ing to our childish story-books, appear at opportune 
moments to grant poor mortals’ wishes, had poised her- 
self upon the overhanging spray of a rich chrysanthemum 
which stood upon a flower-stand near, and begged him to 
tell her what earthly wish was unfulfilled, he could not 
have mentioned one. 

A happy man ! 

Presently a lady stepped out of one of the open windows 
and approached him. He rose to make room for her on 
the bench beside him, but she did not take the seat thus 
offered; standing close to him, she leaned her cheek upon 
his curls and slipped a little hand into his. 


8 


CHAR TER IS. 


“ Well, have you seen your nestling safe for the night, 
Lady-Bird?” he asked, looking fondly up at her and draw- 
ing her down upon his knee. “ Are you sure no chilling 
air can reach him? that no fly can light upon his nose? 
and that every feather in his bed is laid the right way? 
that nurse will not set fire to his crib ? or ” 

^^Oh, don’t, Guy, don’t! Suppose something should 
happen, — suppose we should lose him 1 Don’t jest about 
it, dear ! I cannot bear the thought !” 

Her voice roused the dog, who came and laid his 
beautiful head on his mistress’ lap, looking up at her 
with his soft, intelligent eyes, and wagging his heavily 
fringed tail slowly, thus mutely expressing his sympathy 
in whatever trouble there might be. 

She patted the noble head, and her husband replied, 
“Then I will not, dear. But what do you propose to do 
when Lady Emmeline Stuart, Cecilia Morton, and Sir 
John Fordyce come next week? Master Guy’s claims 
will have to be in abeyance then, for these folks cannot 
be put off as easily as I am.” 

“As you are ! But I scorn to notice such an allega- 
tion.” Then she sighed, as she ran her fingers through 
his heavy curls. “ I know we must do our duty by society 
and all that, but I’d rather be tete-d-tete a little longer, 
Guy.” 

“You hypocrite!” he exclaimed, laughing. “When 
they do come, how you’ll kiss and hug the ladies, and 
tell Sir John you hope he proposes a long visit ! You 
know how you women do these things.” 

“We women! And will you tell me how I am to 
avoid acting the part you blame? I cannot tell them I 
am not glad to see them ! Besides, in a measure, I am 
glad. I am only sorry our tete-d-tetes will not be so 
frequent. After all, sir, who invited them? Didn’t you 


CHAR TER IS. 


9 


ask Sir John? and didn't suggest Cecilia Morton? 
lo try your hand at match-making, I suppose! What 
could I do but ask them to come ?” 

“ True, you are right. I acknowledge my share in the 
matter. Do you know we will have a new neighbor 
soon?” 

“No; who?” 

“Gilbert Forrester.” 

“Oh!” 

“He has just returned from India. That little *oh* 
didn’t sound as if you would give him a very cordial wel- 
come. Have you not yet overcome your dislike to poor 
Gilbert?” 

“ Dislike ! Guy, it is not dislike, — it is an antipathy 
that no amount of reasoning can overcome ! I feel his 
return to England bodes us no good.” 

“ You foolish child ! Do you know I was about to 
invite him here?” 

“Here! Guy!” 

“ Why not ? He is coming down next week to see what 
can be done towards making the old Towers habitable. 
He has made quite a fortune in India. Aside from his 
love of wine, I think we would find him an intelligent 
companion, and I expect he will have much of interest 
to relate of his life in that far country.” 

“ Guy ! Guy Charteris ! Gilbert Forrester never crosses 
the threshold of the house that calls me mistress, if I can 
prevent it ! He is not a man, — he is a cold, cruel, heart- 
less fiend !” 

“ There ! there ! Don’t get excited for nothing, little 
girl ! He shall not come if you feel so about it !” replied 
Mr. Charteris, looking into her face in amused amaze- 
ment. “ But you ought to try to overcome this antipathy. 
Gilbert is your own first cousin ; your only blood-relation 

A* 


lO 


CHARTER IS. 


after your uncle. He will be your uncle’s heir, and if any 
thing should happen to me ” 

“ Don’t leave me to the mercy of Gilbert Forrester, 
Guy ! Promise me, — oh, promise me that !” 

“ I do, — I do, Clare. I am sorry I spoke of the matter 
at all, since you have excited yourself so much. There, 
let us go in ; I see Benson has lighted up, and look, he 
comes back with what seems like a telegram.” 

He rose, and still keeping his arm around his wife, led 
her towards the low French window of her morning-room, 
where the butler stood awaiting them, holding in his hand 
an envelope. 

Mr. Charteris opened the dispatch, and his wife read it 
over his arm. It was but a few words from Sir Robert For- 
rester’s physician, stating that the baronet had had a 
stroke, and asking Mr. Charteris to hurry to him. Clare 
took the dispatch out of her husband’s hand as he turned 
to the butler and gave him directions for Roger, his valet, 
to prepare for the journey. 

“ I must catch the next train. Let me see,” looking at 
his watch, — it is just half-past nine \ the train stops at the 
station at 10.15 ; there is no time to lose.” 

‘‘ Oh, Guy, do you think it is very bad?” asked Clare, 
her soft eyes full of tears. 

“ How can I tell, love? You know Dr. Snowden said, 
when he had the last attack, he feared your uncle would 
not survive another.” 

“ Dear, dear uncle ! I may never see him again !” 

“You shall if it is possible, Clare. I will telegraph you 
in the morning, and if — if he is conscious, or — there is no 
reason against it, — you can join me ; or, if Gilbert Forres- 
ter arrives, I will return for you.” 

“ Guy, I wish you were not going !” 

“ So do I, Clare ; but you see it cannot be helped. I 


CHARTERIS. 


II 


want you to promise me that you will go to bed quietly, 
and that you will not worry. Will you?” 

“I’ll try, dear; but ” 

He kissed her and left the room. The dog had followed 
them from the terrace, and now, as his mistress turned 
towards the window and leaned against the frame looking 
out, he came and stood very close to her, thrusting his 
head under her hand. She stood there playing with the 
long silken ears until her husband returned. 

He came up and put his arm around her waist, and 
together they remained for a few seconds silently looking 
out into the perfect stillness of the night. Then he turned 
her face up to his. 

“ Good-by, darling. What, tears, foolish one ! There !” 
he kissed her eyes. “Now, Birdie, it is time to say 
good-by, — remember your promise.” 

“ Guy ! Guy! take me with you !” she cried out, and 
threw her arms around his neck. 

“ What ! And leave the boy?” 

“ I cannot help it, dear ; I have such a sad presentiment 
of trouble,” she said, clinging to him. “What would I 
do if I were to lose you?” 

“ Don’t be foolish. Birdie, over a six-hours’ ride on the 
railroad. We know every mile of the way, and have been 
over it so often.” 

“ Still, something ” 

“When the skies fall we’ll catch larks,” he answered, 
gayly. “Now, Clare, my darling, be reasonable; go to 
bed and quiet yourself by a good night’s rest, for ” 

The rest of the sentence he whispered in her ear. As 
he did so a slight color rose to her pale cheeks, and she 
unclasped her arms from around his neck. 

The dog-cart was announced ready, and they walked 
around the house to the entrance where it stood. The 


12 


CHARTERIS. 


moon was by this time below the trees, which considerably 
obscured her light, but the lamps were lighted each side 
of the door and in the hall. 

Bidding his wife a last good-by, Guy mounted the 
vehicle. Clare stood on the steps in the full light of the 
lamps as he turned again to wave his hand, and the ponies 
started. They had gone but a few paces when one of the 
grooms stopped them to speak to the master, and as he 
did so, he held his lantern up, revealing Guy’s face clearly 
to his wife’s gaze. Then the cart rattled towards the gate, 
and Clare turned into the house and sought her nursery, 
with the undefinable presentiment of evil still strong in 
her heart. 


CHAPTER II. 

Leaving Guy Charteris to his night’s ride, leaving Clare 
kneeling at her boy’s bedside, sobbing out her grief and 
excitement, turn we to London. 

The night that was so calmly beautiful down in Devon- 
shire is far otherwise there. It rains in London, a steady, 
slow, pePSTfetent pour, as if it meant to rain a week. 

In a coffee-house in a quiet, respectable, though not 
fashionable, part of the city, a man was sitting. Before 
him, on one of the little tables, was a simple meal. 

The man, whom we shall call George Robson, was care- 
fully, though poorly, dressed, as if he were making the 
most of a meagre wardrobe. No one, looking at him 
once, would have been attracted to .repeat their gaze, 
drawn by any personal beauty. He appeared prematurely 
old, care-worn, and sad. His hair was turning quite gray, 
and beginning to wear off the temples, and his gray eyes 


CHAR TER IS. 


13 


had a furtive look in them when he raised them, which 
was seldom, for he seemed to fear meeting the gaze of any 
other eyes j and if by chance the merest stranger looked 
at him long, he grew restless and uneasy. 

There was a nervous twitching of his full lips that showed 
his weakness more decidedly. He was not actually a bad 
or a cruel man — on the contrary, children and animals 
loved him ; but he was weak, and had been selfish, and 
thence had come his great undoing. Led away by the 
influence of a man who at first professed a warm friend- 
ship for him, but whose object was to use him as he saw 
he could be used, — a man who was cold, heartless, and 
cruel,— he had fallen first into folly, then into crime. He 
had held a commission as a surgeon in the army, and was 
considered as possessed of fine talents. But he had been 
degraded, and dismissed the service. From that his course 
had been steadily downward. The friend who had helped 
him to his ruin kept track of him for some time in Eng- 
land, and at length he went to India, but his tormentor 
followed him there, and they were together many years. 

About eighteen months previous to this September 
evening, a letter, written by his mother just before her 
death, reached him after many wanderings. He had re- 
ceived the news of her death previously, and tWf letter 
seemed truly like a message from the grave. It was full 
of eloquent pleading, such as only a true mother could 
write, and it touched the one vulnerable point in his 
otherwise hardened nature. 

Under the influence of the promptings of this better 
spirit, he managed to escape from the toils so dexterously 
thrown around him, and returned to England. 

Victor Hugo says, we all have angels’ wings in us, if 
they could only expand. God only knows what the re- 
sult would have been had George Robson been left to his 


14 


CHARTERIS. 


better nature, had the angel's wings been allowed to show 
themselves ; but ! 

As he sat at the little table, the door of the room 
opened, and a stranger entered. 

He was a tall man, and handsome, so far as regularity 
of features went, but there was a coldness in the glitter of 
the light-blue eye and a hardness in the curve of the thin 
lips that no change in the face ever softened. Heaven 
help the poor wretch who found himself in his power ! 

He carried an umbrella, and was dressed handsomely, 
but warmly, even for this chilly evening, wearing an over- 
coat lined and edged with fur. 

As the door opened to admit this figure, Robson looked 
up. For an instant he gazed in mute astonishment; 
then, muttering an oath, hastily put on his hat and drew 
it over his eyes, and, picking up the paper over which he 
had been glancing, held it in front of him. 

The new-comer gave his order, and sauntered down the 
room. At first he was not attracted by the man who sat 
with his hat drawn over his face ; he passed quite close to 
him, and would have gone on but for a sudden quick, 
shrinking movement involuntarily made by Robson, which 
the stranger seemed to recognize. He paused, looked at 
the figure, then laid his hand heavily on its shoulder. 

Unless I am very much mistaken, we have met be- 
fore, sir.” 

Robson did not speak or look up. The paper fell from 
his hands, and they writhed in a peculiar manner. 

“Yes, I am right!” continued the stranger, seating 
himself, resting his umbrella against the chair next him, 
and drawing off his gloves. “ This is my old friend and 
ally (a stress on the last word), who left India so suddenly 
a few months ago ! How interesting that paper must have 
been ! See, you had it upside-^down 1 Why, man, have 


CHAR TER IS. 


15 

you no welcome for me? You ought to be glad — devilish 
glad — to see me ; we are such old friends, you know.” 

There was the concentration of a thousand sneers in 
his voice, and his victim writhed as if in the toils of a 
boa-constrictor. 

” Gilbert Forrester !” he said, at last, in a low but in- 
tense tone, through his clinched teeth. ^‘1 thought — I 
hoped — never to look upon your face again ! Why, in the 
devil’s name, did you hunt me out? I can’t help you any 
more; can’t you let me alone?” 

The tone of his voice was fierce with anger at first ; at 
the last words it subsided into one querulous and weak, and 
the thin hands rubbed over each other in an aimless way. 

”You hoped never to see me again! Ha I ha! ha! 
Bring me a glass — two glasses — of brandy-and-water.” 
This to the waiter, who approached at this moment with 
what he had ordered at first entering. 

** Doubtless,” he continued, “ the sight of me does not 
recall very pleasant memories, and I did not know you 
were trying to play Johnny Goodboy. ‘Why, in the 
devil’s name, did I hunt you out ?’ Now, if you really are 
trying the reform dodge, the devil is an ugly name to 
swear by, and I fear if the shepherd who has been re- 
joicing over a lamb that was lost and found, and has held 
you up metaphorically to a gaping congregation as a brand 
snatched from the burning, heard you, he would begin to 
think you backsliding. But, for the sake of old tunes, I’ll 
set your mind at rest. I did not hunt you out. I have 
not thought much about you, knowing that I could find 
you at any time if I really wanted you. Still, now I 
have met you, I am glad, and will take your address. 
Such old friends as you and I will have much to talk 
about.” 

During this speech Robson turned white and then ashy 


i6 ^ 


CHARTER IS, 


gray, and bit his lip till the blood came. At last he gasped 
out, “What devil’s work are you up to now? Didn’t 

you — you ” He paused and looked into the other’s 

face. His companion was regarding him calmly with a 
smile on his lips, but with a look in his eye that made 
Robson shrink up, as it were, and wither into an old 
man as he sat there. Presently wetting his white lips 
with his tongue, he finished the sentence, “ Didn’t you 
earn enough money in India?” 

“Earn is a good word, mon cher^ a very good word. 
I was sure your fertile brain would suggest a safe one. 
Try and be always as circumspect in your language, and 
we will not quarrel on that head at least. Yes, I did earft 
enough money in India for the present, and I don’t think 
my old uncle can hold out much longer. When it shall 
please him to shuffle off this mortal coil I will be glad. I 
don’t know that I am ‘up to any devil’s work now,’ as 
you elegantly express it ; still, circumstances may arise in 
which your valuable aid might be required. You have 
not forgotten your studies in toxicology pursued in India 
with such ardor?” He asked the question for the simple 
delight of seeing his victim writhe in his toils. 

“ Heavens ! you do not contemplate murder again?” 

Again? that implies that I have done so before! 
Don’t use the word in the same connection any more, or 
it will be the worse for you. If you had been overheard 
it might have led to ugly results. Remember ^ you have no 
evidence against me, but I have that in my possession that 
woula hang you high as Haman !” 

These words were spoken in a whisper close to the 
other’s ears, who recoiled as though a snake had shaken 
its rattles in the same proximity. The whole conversation 
had been carried on in a tone too low to reach any of the 
customers who were scattered around the room. And 


CHARTER IS. 


17 


Gilbert Forrester, no matter how vehement his words were 
intone, had kept his facial muscles under wonderful control. 

“ Have you been down to ” 

‘‘See my uncle? Of course. Then I kept on to Devon, 
to look at that valuable maternal inheritance of mine, — 
Brandon Towers.” 

“ Did you see Mrs. Charteris?” 

“My precious cousin Clare? No, damn her! nor want 
to. I have not seen her since a certain interview we had 
ten years ago, before I went to India. When I reached 
Brandon I found that, thanks to my ten-years’ absence 
and this heavy beard, I was not recognized. So, in view 
of probable contingencies, I did not reveal myself. I 
found the Towers in rather a dilapidated condition, and 
that it enjoyed the reputation of being haunted. The 
woods around it are thick, and none of the country peo- 
ple will set foot within the shadow of the trees after night- 
fall, and not willingly in the day-time. I don’t think I 
could induce one of them to climb the hill on which the 
building stands for a fortune. But I have forgotten, in 
the pleasure of this meeting, an engagement I had. You 
were doubtless surprised to see me in this part of the 
city ; it is not often I find myself here, nor am I fond of 
exposing myself to this wretched climate, — if it is cold 
enough to make furs comfortable now, what will it be in 
December? But first give me your address. Thank you; 
now I shall say good-by, promising myself the pleasure of 
calling at your quarters in a short time.” 

He put the slip of paper on which Robson had written 
his address in his pocket, and rose from the table. Draw- 
ing his furred overcoat more closely around him, and 
buttoning it up, he put on his hat and, airily kissing the 
tips of his fingers, saying, plaisir de vous revoir^"' 
left the hou .e. 


CHAR TER IS. 


'l8 


The miserable man from whom he parted watched him 
till he closed the door, then, folding his arms on the table, 
rested his head on them, murmuring, while an expression 
of dull misery settled over his features, — 

“Lost! Lost!” 

And the recording angel, as he folded his book over 
the record of the day’s deeds, echoed with sad cadence, — 
“Lost! Lost!” 


CHAPTER III. 

A FEW evenings after the interview mentioned in the 
last chapter, George Robson sat in his rooms in gloomy 
meditation. 

They were comfortable apartments, on the first floor, 
in a respectable neighborhood. He had taken much 
pleasure in fitting them up, the back room as a bedroom, 
the front as part office, part sitting-room. A book-case, 
containing his modest medical library, an office-table, 
some chairs, a music-stand, upon which lay a flute, and 
some fine engravings, completed the furniture ; over the 
mantel hung a photograph of that marvel of ancient 
sculpture, the Laocoon, — how aptly chosen, it seemed, in 
his present mood ! 

Hopeful visions had come before him, as he found him- 
self getting more and more into practice, of a quiet, useful, 
if not so happy a life as he had once thought to live ; one 
in which, by doing all in his power to relieve the suffer- 
ings of his fellow-mortals, he hoped to retrieve, and, if 
possible, to atone for, the past. 

In his youthful days, when life and hope were fresh 


CHARTER IS. 


19 


before him, he had entered into the study of medicine 
with elevated ideas of the power for good which lies in a 
physician’s hands, and of the responsibilities which the 
profession involved. These feelings had, in a measure, 
returned in the last few months. But the golden visions 
of a peaceful future were all gone now, dispelled by the 
w^ords of Gilbert Forrester in that short hour in the coffee- 
house. If he had not gone to that place that night ! It 
was pure accident which took him there. Visiting a patient 
that afternoon, he found it necessary to remain much 
longer than he had intended, to watch some particular 
symptom and the effect of a certain medicine. Thus, the 
usual dinner-hour having passed, he stopped at the first 
eating-house he saw to satisfy his hunger. If he had not 
done so ! If ! if ! 

What undreamed-of meaning lies in those two little 
letters ! 

Presently there was a knock at the door, and the mis- 
erable man roused himself from his gloomy musings. 

His visitor was Gilbert Forrester. 

Robson turned away as soon as he recognized him, 
folded his arms and gazed moodily into the fire, without 
rising or uttering a word of greeting. 

“ By my faith ! If I were not one of the most amiable 
of men I might really get angry. You are a most hospit- 
able host. Have you forgotten all you used to know of 
the code of politeness? Not a word of greeting !” 

Why should I speak? You know I don’t wish to see 
you ; you would not go away if I bid you, and I will not 
ask you to stay. You have me in your power, — you will 
do as you please, — but you cannot force me to play the 
hypocrite.” 

“1 cannot, eh? How long since? It would not be anew 
role to you. But a truce to such pleasantries. As you say, I 


20 


CHAR TER IS. 


will do as I please ; and I certainly would not go away if 
you bade me, for I am perfectly charmed with your nest. 
It is delightfully complete ! I hope you have succeeded in 
obtaining customers, — patients, I should say. Perhaps 
they would have come more quickly had you advertised, 
‘ late of his Majesty’s — th,’ eh ? As our friends over the 
Channel say, ^Bonne renommee vaut mieux que ceinture 
doree.' ” 

Gilbert Forrester, are you man or devil?” cried his 
victim, at length, springing up. 

“Ah, you are waked up at last!” sneered Forrester, 
seating himself. “And it is evident,” he continued, 
“ you have not heard the latest intelligence in the fashion- 
able world, — as how could you, living here, — or you would 
address me differently. You have the honor of speaking 
to Sir Gilbert Forrester. Le roi est mart. Vive le roi /” 

“ Well, are you satisfied?” 

“Satisfied! Ten thousand devils, — no! Nor would 
you be. I am left nothing I could be robbed of. I sus- 
pected some such game long ago, but I did not dream of 
its being so successful ! That pale-faced minx, my cousin 
Clare, has played her cards so well that all is left to her and 
her children ; do you hear ? — all. I couldn’t be robbed of 
the title and the entailed estate, — but all else is gone. With 
the saving clause of reversion to me in case of her death 
and that of her immediate heirs. And now, can you 
guess what brought me here ? I mean to have my re- 
venge ; I mean to make Clare Charteris disgorge her ill- 
gotten wealth, or suffer such anguish as mortal woman 
never suffered before; and I look to you to help me.” 

“ I, — help you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ God in heaven ! How?’ 

“ Never mind the full particulars of my plan just now. 


CHARTER IS, 


21 


You can refuse your assistance,— of course you can refuse ; 
but \\iQX\,you \j\ovf the consequences^ and I don t think you 
will.” He paused, and watched his victim for awhile in 
silence. Robson sat with his face hidden in his hands. 

“ Well?” Forrester asked, at length. '‘Well, are you 
ready to hear what I have to say ?” 

“ Go on,” muttered Robson, without changing his posi- 

tion. 

“ ’Tis a pity to break up this cosy little establishment ; 
but it must be. I want you to go down to Devon- 
shire with me to-morrow.” 

To-morrow?” 

“Ay, to-morrow,” he answered, slowly. 

Again there was silence. 

“ Guy Charteris is in London. I dined with him to- 
day ; have just left him to come here,” continued For- 


rester. 

The other shuddered. 

“ He is here making all necessary settlements in regard 
to his wife’s bright new fortune, the bequest of my dear 
departed uncle. I told him I would be a neighbor of his 
before long ; that I had sent my valet and housekeeper 
down to Brandon Towers to see to making a few rooms 
habitable. Now, he returns himself to Charteris Manor 
early next week, and my work must be done before he 


reaches home.” 

Robson made no answer. ^ 

“We start in the mid-day train ; see that you don t 
play me false. I don’t half trust you, Robson, since you 
have been trying to play Johnny Goodboy, and I d find 
some one else to help me in this job, if I could ; but from 
something Charteris said to-night, in speaking of his wife, 
I judge a physician might be needed in a hurry,-women s 
nerves, you know, are queer arrangements, and not to be 


22 


CHARTER IS, 


relied on under all circumstances. It is a fortunate thing 
that I can leave the train before we reach Charteris’ ; I 
find there is a station a couple of miles from the Towers, 
so all goes well for me. I need not be known as master 
of Brandon till I choose. Now, have you heard all I have 
said, and do you understand me?” 

“Yes.” 

“ So far, so good ; see that you fully understand me to 
the last. Remember ! ’ ’ 

“ I shall remember.” 

“ Then I will say good-night ; and I must add, I never 
saw so churlish a host ! I need not ask so devoted a 
follower of the Muses, so skillful a musician, if he has 
attended the opera lately. Have you seen La Rita as 
Rosina ? She is charmingly piquante. So ! Buona sera^ 
buona mite !' ' 

With a mocking laugh he closed the door and left the 
house. The laugh still lingered on his lips as he stepped 
out into the night and tripped lightly down the street, 
drawing on his gloves and humming the buona notte^ 
buona sera^^ he had flung so sneeringly at Robson on 
parting from him. 

“ My God ! is there no escape ?” 

Robson sprang up and flung his arms above his head in 
wild despair. “Escape! none, — none but death ! But 
what death could be worse than such a life as this? 
Ah ! let it come ! let it come to-night, and I will bless 
it!” 

He seized his hat and rushed from the room and from 
the house. Instinctively his course was towards the river, 
and in a short time he found himself on the bridge, under 
the abbey walls. 

The lights along it, and the crowds of people passing 
over the bridge, caused him to shrink into one of the 


CHAR TER IS. 


23 

recesses, where, unobserved, he could look down upon 
the dark waters. 

But a policeman, who had been attracted by his strange 
manner, followed him, and hung around the alcove, evi- 
dently mistrusting his intention. 

Annoyed by this surveillance, he hurried across to the 
Surrey side, and wandered among the slums and greasy 
wharves, and gazed into the river, as many a poor wretch 
has done before, and.will do again, tliinking how soon the 
ills of life would be over could he but sink into the water 
and lie there forever, — could he but lie down upon the 
surface of the steadily-flowing river, fold his arms upon 
his breast, and be carried out and on — far off — anywhere 
— with only the quiet stars to know aught of his fate! 

But he did not go further than thought. That strange 
clinging to life which is so strong in the breast of even the 
most miserable of us, — perhaps, too, the “dread of some- 
thing after death, that makes us rather bear the ills we 
have than fly to others that we know not off,” — bade him 
pause ere he took the fatal plunge. 

Then he looked at the shipping, watched the tall masts 
that stood so clearly against the light which rose from the 
city the other side of the river, making a cloudy radiance 
against the sky, and the idea came to him to secrete him- 
self on board some vessel bound to Australia, or, better 
still, to America, for there he would have a wider range ; 
and never see England or his tormentor more. 

But he began to feel a desperate despondency. It was 
his fate, — the punishment of his one so fearful sin, — and 
there was to be no escape from it. Go where he would, 
this man would find him out. 

Find him out, and rivet his chains only tighter — unless ! 
Oh, there was one way left him I He could give himself 
up into the hands of justice, and his tormentor with him ! 


24 


CHAR TER IS. 


One word from him, and Gilbert Forrester would stand 
to be tried for his life. What mattered it that he could not 
bring judgment upon him and avoid it himself? Could 
anything be more terrible than the present existence? 

But the same love of living which held him back from 
the calm, dark waters of the river, restrained him here, 
and the poor creature turned and wandered off into the 
narrow streets, not knowing where he went, nor caring 
much. 

So he roamed the whole night through, and when 
daylight broke he found himself very far away from his 
own quarters. Turning to retrace his steps, he began to 
think of all he had to do that day, and of the journey he 
had to take. Then his mind went back to other journeys 
he had taken from London into the wild Northumberland 
country, to the quiet parsonage, where his gentle mother 
and sisters had greeted his coming as a delight unequaled 
by any other event of the year. And he remembered the 
dignified pleasure his old father showed in his worldly 
advancement and success. And then — but he shuddered 
when he remembered the blow which had ended all — his 
deep disgrace— the death-stab to both his parents. He 
could not follow any further that train of thought. Then 
he began to think of what Gilbert Forrester meant to do 
down in Devonshire, — how he would carry out his plan, 
and what that plan was. He wondered what devilish 
torment was in contemplation for that fair, sweet creature 
whom he remembered so well in days that were gone, — 
how Forrester would manage to keep within the letter of 
the law ; for, with all his villainies, he was very cunning, 
and took care to run no personal risks. Again came the 
despairing desire to escape from the toils, severed only to 
be riveted more strongly. 

Thinking these things, he walked slowly home in the 


CHARTER IS. 


25 


gray of the morning, and, as he neared his house, he heard 
a moan issue from a covered way he passed. On investi- 
gating, he found a small dog, whose foot had been hurt 
severely, evidently causing much pain. It was a poor, 
miserable-looking little beast ; but Robson took it up 
gently, and the dog seemed to know at once that it was 
in a friend’s hands, and it displayed its confidence in every 
canine way. Reaching his rooms, Robson, after examin- 
ing the dog’s injury and alleviating its sufferings, threw 
himself on his bed, utterly overcome with fatigue, and, in 
spite of his troubled and despairing thoughts, slept heavily 
for some hours. 

The dawn grew stronger, till, at length, the sun strove 
to pierce the London mist, and failed. 

Down in Devonshire he shone with unclouded splendor 
over the newly-awakened earth ; the trees whispered good- 
morning one to another, and each blade of grass, every 
fairy cobweb spun between them, glistened with diamond 
dew-drops. 

Then, rising over the eastern woods, he threw a golden 
shimmer on the moaning sea, and gleamed with a fiery 
radiance upon the windows of Brandon Towers. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Guy Charteris did not send for his wife the next day, 
nor the next; neither did he come for her, for the old 
baronet died a few hours after Guy reached him, without 
a sign of recognition to any one. 

Although he had been telegraphed for at the same time 
that the dispatch had been sent to Charteris, Gilbert For- 

3 


B 


26 


CHARTEJ^IS. 


Tester did not arrive until the afternoon of the next day, 
and Guy was detained making such arrangements as were 
necessary. Then the will was opened immediately after 
the funeral, and, to his great surprise, he learned the dis- 
position the old man had made of his property. 

This obliged him to go to London, and thinking, as 
long as he was away from home, it was better to get the 
business over and done with before he returned, he wrote 
to Clare not to expect him for several days. 

Charteris had been surprised at the calmness with wdiich 
Gilbert Forrester had heard the will read ; he had ex- 
pected some display of disappointment or anger. But 
there was none. Had he been able to look within the 
man’s breast, and see the devils of rage and revenge which 
were storming there, he would have hurried back to Clare’s 
side and never left her. 

But the day after the funeral he went up to London, 
and the next day Sir Gilbert followed him. 

And Clare eagerly watched for letters, and anxiously 
looked forward to her husband’s return ; but, knowing 
that it would distress him to find she had interrupted the 
routine of her life, she took her walks and drives as usual, 
and spent many hours floating on the bosom of the calm 
river in her little boat. She was an expert sailor, and 
managed her little craft fearlessly. It was a small boat 
which Guy had made for her, and had taught her himself 
to manage. Sometimes she would take the nurse, but 
more frequently she and little Guy would go alone to- 
gether. 

Soon after Charteris had gone up to London, a strange, 
dark-looking man was seen hanging about the park, and 
once or twice Clare had noticed him in her drives toward 
Brandon Towers. Busy with her own thoughts, however, 
and fearing no evil, she hardly bestowed a moment’s care 


CHARTERIS. 


27 


upon the stranger ; but the nurse was more nervous, and 
particularly after they came upon him quite suddenly in 
the park and met the glare of his savage black eyes, 
she begged her mistress so piteously not to go out of 
sight of the house alone, that Clare laughingly absolved 
her from any more attendance upon Master Guy in their 
walks. Several evenings after the nurse had been allowed 
to discontinue her attendance, Clare ordered out the boat 
at her usual time and proposed to Guy to sail with her. 

Gayly the little craft answered to* the wind and rudder, 
and in a few moments was beyond a wooded point, around 
which the river turned, completely shielded from and out 
of hearing of any one at the boat-house. 

It was a lovely evening. The sun, near his setting, was 
hanging over the sea, and the crimson radiance of his 
lessening beams was reflected in the river, giving its 
w'aters a rosy hue. The trees were beginning to change 
their summer greenery for autumn’s variegated mantle, 
and there was a stillness and quietness in the air, undis- 
turbed save by the rippling of the water round the bow 
of the boat. 

Giving herself up to the dreamy influence of the hour, 
with pleasant thoughts and the joyous anticipation of see- 
ing her husband soon, Clare leaned back in her cushioned 
seat and indulged her fancies. Guy, a fine, noble, four- 
year-old boy, sat at her feet talking in his baby prattle. 

As she entered the boat she had not noticed two fierce 
black eyes that gleamed out from among the bushes across 
the river, watching her every movement ; nor did she see 
the lithe, supple form which sprang away from the river- 
side and swiftly sought the old building of Brandon 
Towers. 

So the boat glided down the river, there being just 
enough air to keep the sail out and the boat in motion j 


28 


CHAR TER IS. 


and Guy prattled and laughed, and sometimes dabbled 
with his hands in the water as he leaned over the gunwale. 
But soon there is water enough in the boat. At first 
Clare did not notice it, but at a delighted exclamation 
from Guy, she looked down to find the boat-carpet soaking 
wet, and the child playing in water which was rapidly 
rising. 

Her first impulse was to snatch up Guy;, her next to 
find the leak. But her cousin Gilbert’s Hindu valet had 
taken good care that that should not be discovered. The 
water seemed to come in at all sides ; and so it did, by 
small leaks cut just above the water-mark when the boat 
was empty. Then she essayed to turn the little craft to- 
wards the shore, but she trembled so, and the child in her 
lap retarded her movements, and the boat was getting so 
heavy with water, that it did not readily obey its helm; 
and finally, she discovered the sheet by which the sail 
was handled to be almost severed in one place, so that at 
the least strain put upon it it would part. Thus she was 
perfectly helpless, out in the middle of the river, the boat 
sinking rapidly, and no assistance, as she thought, near. 
She screahied as loudly as she could, but no answer was 
returned from the boat-house. Then she gathered the 
child up in her arms, and calmly awaited her fate. The 
water rose till it almost touched her feet. 

Just then another boat with two men in it put out from 
the opposite shore and rowed quickly towards her. She 
saw them and felt that help was near, although she did 
not recognize by whom afforded ; and before they drew 
close enough for her to recognize them she had fainted. 

They did not try to recover her. George Robson (for 
it was he and Forrester) took the little Guy in his arms 
after he had assisted his companion to lift Clare into their 
boat, and the child was not afraid of him. A thrill of 


CHAR TER IS. 


29 


pleasure shot through his heart as he felt the little arms 
around his neck and saw the child’s clear eyes raised 
unhesitatingly to his. 

She will give less trouble this way than if she returns 
to herself, and I will make assurance doubly sure,” said 
Forrester. And, resting on his oars, he drew a vial from his 
pocket, and, pouring some of its contents on his handker- 
chief, laid it lightly on her face. “ There, my lady, you 
will not open your eyes until you are in a more retired 
spot.” 

‘‘Mamma seep?” said little Guy, looking down at his 
mother with rather an alarmed gaze. 

“Yes; she’ll wake up presently,” said Robson, hastily. 
“And now, can’t you tell me your name?” 

“Guy,” answered the boy; “mamma’s Guy,” he 
added, “and Uncle Bobers’s Guy.” 

“Who is Uncle Bobers?” asked Robson, amused by 
his prattle. 

“ He lives away off, and gives Guy candy,” was the 
reply. 

“ Put that child down, Robson, and lend a hand at the 
oars, or we’ll not get to the Towers to-night,” growled 
Forrester. 

Robson put the boy down alongside of his mother, on 
whom he laid his hand, while he gazed wonderingly into 
her insensible face. 

They ro\yed.to the old dilapidated landing at the foot 
of the hill upon which the Towers stood, and Forrester 
gave a peculiar whistle. 

The Hindu came down the path, and, at a sign from his 
master, took the inanimate form of Clare Charteris in his 
arms and carried her towards the house. The others fol- 
lowed, Robson still holding Guy. Brandon Towers 
frowned down upon them from the hill-top ; the gate was 

3 * 


30 


CHARTER IS. 


open, and they entered the inclosure immediately round 
the building without meeting any one. 

Although the sun had not quite set, it was so dark from 
the thick woods around that a light was already gleaming 
from some windows on the lower floor, and thither the 
man bore his still insensible burden. 

They entered a room where a lamp was burning and 
a woman sat sewing. As they entered, she rose silently 
and opened a door into another room furnished as a bed- 
room. 

Mrs. Charteris was laid upon the bed, and the woman 
with her sewing took her seat at the table, where another 
light burned. Clare still remained insensible. 

Here, Sarah, hadn’t you better get the child out of 
the way?” asked Forrester, from the outer room. 

The woman rose and returned to it. Her face wore a 
hard, stony look, and the child instinctively shrank back 
as she approached Robson, in whose arms he still was. 

“ Give him to me,” was all she said. 

But Guy clung around the neck of his first friend, and 
screamed when she tried to force him away. 

‘‘ Never mind,” said Robson ; “ I’ll keep him and take 
care of him to-night.” 

He walked the floor with the boy, and then sat down 
and held him on his knee and kept his attention enchained 
for awhile by most wonderful stories. 

At length Guy grew sleepy, and began to fret and cry 
for his mother. Forrester had taken care that Clare did 
not recover her senses ; his wish was to keep her in this 
state till morning. 

To quiet the boy, Robson took him into the room where 
his mother lay, and as soon as he saw her he stretched out 
his arms and called, Mamma, mamma!” But receiving 
no answer, as Robson held him down close to her he put 


CHAR TER IS. 


31 


his little hand on her eyes and said, Mamma seep, Guy 
seepy, too.” 

Then Robson laid him on the bed beside her, and, 
prattling in his baby way, he lay there a little while awake, 
but gradually his eyes grew heavy and dewy with sleep, and 
in a few moments he was wrapped in the sweet balmy 
slumber of babyhood. 

They sat up all night ; the two men in one room, the 
woman with her pretense of sewing in the other. Long 
after the morning broke, there was a movement from the 
figure on the bed. 

The woman got up and stood by the bedside. 

“ Watkins, did your master come home?” asked Clare, 
and then she started and looked wildly around her. 

“ Where am I ? Where is Guy ?” she asked, trying to 
raise herself to a sitting position; but her head was heavy 
and giddy, and she sank back upon the pillow helplessly, 
and closed her eyes. 

When she opened them again she was alone. 

She made a great effort and drew herself off of the bed, 
but she was obliged to support herself by it. 

As she stood there in utter bewilderment, the door 
opened and Guy ran in. 

My darling ! My Guy ! Thank God, you are safe !” 

She sank upon the floor and clasped him to her breast. 
Awhile they were alone. She had crawled to a chair, and 
drawn the boy into her lap. Again the door opened, and 
a voice said, — 

“Good-morning, Cousin Clare!” 

“Gilbert Forrester!” she exclaimed, rising, and in- 
stinctively claspmg Guy closer to her. 

“You know me, then ! I feared, as it has been so 
many years since you saw me last, I was no longer held in 
remembrance. Let me welcome you to Brandon Towers. ’ ’ 


32 


CHAR TER IS. 


‘^Brandon ! — am I at Brandon Towers?” 

*‘Ay, you are.” But the peculiar tone of voice did 
not strike her. 

How did I come here? Ah, yes ! I remember the 
boat was sinking, and then — I suppose I fainted.” 

Exactly. I, and a friend of mine who was visiting 
me here, saw your danger, and reached you just in time 
to save you, if not from a watery grave, at least from a 
great alarm and danger.” 

For that let me thank you.” She held out her hand, 
with a smile of winning sweetness breaking over her face 
and lighting it up into beauty once more. 

He could not meet that smile, cool as he was, and 
barely touched the extended hand. 

“ But why did you not take me home? — why bring me 
here ?” 

had my reasons, cotlsin mine.” 

^‘But we must go now, Gilbert. Guy was to have re- 
turned from London last night. If he did and does not 
find me he will be terribly alarmed. Poor fellow!” she 
continued, anxiously starting up, what hours of anguish 
and anxiety he must have passed, if he came, as he 
expected, last night ! But, of course, you sent him word 
of our safety?” she asked, suddenly. 

“ I did not.” 

You did not ! Gilbert, what do you mean? Could 
you not have sent a note — only two lines — two words ?” 

“ I could, had I chosen ; but I did not.” 

<^Why — why?” she asked, wildly. ‘‘I — I don’t 
understand it.” 

^‘Perhaps not; but I do.” 

“You must send us home, now, Gilbert, right away. 

I am thankful to you that you saved our lives, but I can- 
not let Guy suffer any more hours of anxiety.” 


CHARTERIS. 


33 


‘‘I think it is likely he will suffer many more before 
he sees you, Clare.” 

“What do you mean, Gilbert Forrester? for God’s 
sake speak plainly !” 

“ I will, since you wish it. Do you remember the in- 
terview we had just before I went to India? Doubtless 
you do, and you remember, then, my telling you that the 
day of my revenge would come. You refused my love to 
marry the man whom of all others I hated. For that I 
swore revenge. And not content with robbing me of 
yourself, you robbed me of my uncle’s fortune by your 
affectations of affection and goodness, supported by the 
inimitable Charteris, of Charteris. For that, when I 
heard of it, I swore a double revenge. I sent my Hindu 
servant and my housekeeper, so-called, down here several 
days ago ; the one to watch your movements, the other 
to prepare for your residence here ” 

“Gilbert, Gilbert, are you human?” she interrupted 
him with a cry, and sank back into the chair from which 
she had risen. 

“The one,” he continued, not noticing her words, 
“ discovered what a fearless and expert boat-woman you 
were, and also, that by diving under the boat-house door 
he could effect an entrance to the charming little craft 
you were so fond of. Also he noted the hours when you 
were most likely to take your favorite exercise, and was 
on the alert to let me know when you started from the 
Charteris landing; consequently, when I arrived I found 
everything arranged to my hand.” 

She started up and clasped Guy to her. 

“What do you wish me to do; what do you want?” 
Her eyes had a wild, terrified look in them. 

“To settle our little account, Clare ; and until that is 
arranged to wj/ satisfaction, do not leave this house.” 

B* 


34 


CHAR TER IS. 


She looked at him and read his full meaning in his 
face. There was no need for further words. 

Not leave — this— house ! do you mean that?” 

Her voice rose almost to a scream, her eyes were upon 
his face, and they dilated and grew fixed as she looked. 

Then she passed her hands aimlessly over her boy’s 
curls, a shudder shook her whole frame. She gave a hys- 
terical laugh, and fell at his feet in violent convulsions. 


CHAPTER V. 

How shall we describe the anguish of that night at 
Charteris? After Clare had been gone a couple of 
hours, and there was no sign of her returning, the boat- 
man came up to the house and told the housekeeper he 
felt uneasy. A number of the servants hurried down to 
and along the river bank, looking and crying and calling. 
Shott, the dog, seemed to know something was wrong, 
and to share their anxiety; he would plunge into the 
river and swim out a distance, then come back and howl 
and cry. 

While they stood there, not knowing what to do, the 
early darkness began to fall. The boatman, with Benson, 
the butler, and two other of the men-servants, took lan- 
terns, and drew out one of the other boats to go and search 
the river. 

As they pushed off they heard the whistle of the train 
upon which Mr. Charteris was expected. That signal 
was given when the locomotive was at the turn above the 
stopping-place. Five seconds more and it would be at 
the station. 


CHAR TER IS. 


35 


One of the grooms had gone to meet the master with 
the dog-cart, before the alarm had been given about Mrs. 
Charteris ; consequently, her husband would reach home 
before he could know anything. 

The men rowed on, holding a lantern each side of the 
boat, and moving slowly after they passed the point round 
which she was seen to sail, from one side of the river to 
the other. 

The train arrived at the station. Mr. Charteris, with 
a “Well, Harris," sprang into the dog-cart; his valise 
was thrown in after him, and he took the reins, putting 
the horse to its utmost speed. 

Through the gates, over the graveled carriage-drive, 
through the park, under those old oaks and elms, he drove 
up to the mansion door. 

There was a light in the hall, but no one waiting to 
meet him. He had expected Clare’s sweet face to be the 
first thing his eye would rest upon, and he was disap- 
pointed. 

Throwing the reins to the groom, he sprang out and 
into the house ; no one anywhere about. He looked into 
the library and the other rooms on that floor, then passed 
down a narrower hall, that crossed the other one at right 
angles, and sought his wife’s own sitting-room, — the room 
in which they had been last together. 

It, too, was empty ; a light burned upon the table, but 
the room was empty. No, there was a sound, — a sound 
between a cry of joy and a bark ; he looked over towards 
the window, and there lay Shott. The dog did not raise 
his head, which rested on the floor between his paws, but 
swayed the heavy brush of his tail over the carpet in a 
semicircle. 

His master walked over to him, and he gave another 
cry. Mr. Charteris stopped and laid his hand on his 


CHARTER IS. 


36 

head ; it was wet. Then he saw there was something in the 
dog’s mouth. He took hold of it, and found it was one 
of his wife’s gardening-gloves. As soon as his master took 
the glove in his hand, Shott sprang out of the window. 
The carpet where he had been lying was wet, as well as 
where he had swept it with his heavy tail. Struck by this 
with an anxiety he had not felt before, Mr. Charteris fol- 
lowed him. 

It was quite dark, but he understood at once why there 
was no one to meet him at the house. All the servants 
were collected at and about the boat-house ; some had 
lanterns, others torches hastily formed by binding three 
or four wax tapers together, and the flames of which threw 
a lurid light over the trees and water and faces of the men 
and women. 

In an instant Guy was among them. Silently they fell 
back, and as silently he passed right to the edge of the 
water. No one dared to speak. He went down to the 
boat-house and looked in; then he turned and gazed 
quest ion in gly at one of the grooms who was standing next 
to him, and the flare of whose waxen torch revealed the 
agony of his face. 

In deep pity, the man said, ‘‘ They be gone to see what 
have happened, sir.” 

Where?” He asked the question rather by the mo- 
tion of his dry, white lips than by the uttered word. 

The man pointed down the river. His master sprang 
into the boat-house, and began to unfasten the only boat 
left there. Two or three of the men followed him, and 
in a few moments they were on the track of Tom and 
Benson. The crowd of servants stood and waited, while 
Shott sprang into the water and swam after his master. 

The first boat was rowed slowly across the river and 
back, back and forth, as they went on, keeping a keen 


CHARTERIS. 


37 


lookout. Presently they saw beyond the rays of their 
lantern, in the dim distance, something white, and they 
rowed towards it. 

And now their worst fears are confirmed, for it is the 
sail of the boat which had attracted them; but the pre- 
cious freight is gone ! — only Guy’s felt hat, the feather 
dripping in a long string, hung over one of the rowlocks. 
The little craft, full of water, lay partly on its side, caught 
in a bed of sea- weeds and grass, the loose sail hanging 
mournfully to its mast. That was all ! 

At this sight the men in the boat stopped rowing, and 
gazed for a moment in each other’s faces ; then Tom, the 
boatman, broke the silence : 

“ Heaven help the master ! — they be gone down !” 

“And there he is !” exclaimed Benson, as the boat in 
which Mr. Charteris had followed them rounded the point. 
In another moment he was alongside. 

Without speaking he reached out and caught the rope, 
and tried to draw the sunken craft towards him. The 
men understood his wish intuitively, and turned their 
boats side by side, and those who were not rowing seized 
the rope, and so moved the disabled boat and drew it to- 
wards the shore. As soon as they got :t into shallow 
water two of them sprang in and drew it up upon the 
grass. 

Then Guy Charteris sank down in his agony upon the 
turf, and moaned aloud. His men stood round and 
looked at him silently; but eyes that never knew a tear 
before were dim, and poor Tom, utterly overcome, threw 
himself at the foot of a tree and sobbed. Then they tried 
to raise their master and carry him to the house, but he 
resisted. 

“ No ; bring me a glass of brandy, and get ropes and 
poles and lanterns, to search the river ! ’ ’ 

4 


38 


CHARTER IS. 


The tide is going out !” one of the men spoke, almost 
unconsciously. 

“My God, have mercy!” Charteris’ head sank in 
his hands, and his whole frame shook with agony. 

All night they searched and dragged the river; and 
the stars paled out, and the rising sun’s earliest rays 
sparkled on the waters ; his last beams crimsoned all the 
western sky — and still they worked on. 

Down the stream, past the Towers landing; but there 
was no boat there now, — not a sign of life or motion. 
Only two fiery eyes watched them from behind a clump 
of bushes, following them step by step as they went down. 

Down the stream, inch by inch, they worked ; but all 
in vain I Thei^ utmost efforts were fruitless. Never would 
Guy Charteris 'hold his wife or baby in his arms again ! 
Never again ! — never again I 


CHAPTER VI. 

The old halls of Brandon Towers had been silent for 
many years to the echo of baby laughter or baby cries. 

Not since Gilbert Forrester had been a child — first, a 
tender babe, guarded by a devoted mother’s love; then, 
a happy, innocent boy — had the old walls echoed to the 
expression of childish joy or sorrow. 

That night a baby’s first feeble moan was heard within 
the grim walls. It was a very feeble moan, and soon 
stilled forever. No father’s blessing rested on its brow ; 
no mother’s hand caressed it. 

So they laid the little form in a rude box, and 
piled the earth over it, at the foot of the elm-tree near 


CHAR TER IS. 


39 


the gate, while the mother lay unconscious of all around 
her — and the father ! 

Guy Charteris had gone up from the river, when the 
search was proved fruitless, into his wife’s room, the 
room in which he had found the dog; and had not left it. 
Shott stayed with him nearly all the time, sometimes 
pacing up and down the room with his master; some- 
times lying down and watching him ; moaning now and 
then, as though he would fain let him know how deep 
his sympathy was. Anon, he would thrust his head under 
his master’s hand and gaze up at him with his almost 
human eyes. 

The news spread through the country that the sweet 
lady of Charteris Manor and its heir had been drowned, 
and expressions of sympathy from neighboring families 
poured in by letter as well as in personal calls. For 
Clare had been very much loved by all who knew her, 
and the intelligence shocked and saddened every one. 
But Guy would see no one — read nothing. Only the 
rector, Mr. Forsyth, his old friend and former tutor, 
found his way, by reason of his sacred office, to the suffer- 
ing man’s side, and remained there. 

The news spread to London, and in due time Sir Gilbert 
Forrester arrived. At first, Guy thought he would not 
see him; he remembered Clare’s antipathy, and begged 
Mr. Forsyth to be the bearer of his excuses. But Mr. 
Forsyth reminded him that Forrester was his wife’s sole 
relation, and it was his due to be admitted. 

The reverend gentleman went himself to meet the 
baronet, and accompanied him to the door of the room, 
but did not enter. He did not admire Gilbert Forrester, 
and never had, and now less than ever; for there was a 
triumphant air about the man which he could not conceal 
under a show of sadness, strive as he would, for which 


40 


CHARTER IS. 


Mr. Forsyth was unable to find a reason. As his visitor 
entered the room, Guy stood up and held out his hand. 
But before the other could reach him, a rush of memories 
came over him, and, throwing himself upon the sofa, he 
buried his face in his hands, while his whole frame shook 
with agony. These were the first tears he had shed. 

Forrester hardly knew what to say ; the grief was so 
fearful that common words of condolence would have 
seemed a mockery, and he could not go to him and say, 
“Your wife lives; I have her in my custody !” He had 
come prepared to cast his last die ; to tell Charteris that 
Clare was not dead, and frame some plausible reason for 
her detention at Brandon, after he had proposed the price 
of his discovery, w:hich was to be the relinquishment of 
his uncle’s property. He knew he was liable to the law 
for kidnapping his cousin, and that he could not really 
blind Charteris to the truth ; but he knew, too, the great 
pride which would prevent him from making any avoidable 
expose^ and counted upon his joy at finding his lost ones 
to make good his own terms. But he could do nothing 
now, he felt, as he stood and looked down at the prostrate 
figure, and he knew time once lost here could not be re- 
gained. He would have to talk calmly to a calm man, 
and he found Guy Charteris was in no condition to 
listen. 

Mr. Forsyth, hearing the stricken man’s moans, hurried 
to his side, and made a gesture to Forrester to leave the 
room. Like one in a dream, the latter turned and 
obeyed, but when he reached the door he looked back 
and made a motion as if to speak. But the rector re- 
peated his gesture more imperatively, and with a muttered 
oath he closed the door behind him, and, taking his way 
to the river, requested to be ferried over, saying he and 
a friend were staying at Brandon for a few days. 


CHAR TER IS. 


41 


Once again on terra firma, and his face turned away 
from Charteris, he suffered the studied expression of 
sorrow he had kept up to give way to one of perplexity. 
What was he to do ? 

Give up his cherished plans, and carry Clare back some 
night, and leave her and Guy there, on the platform of 
the boat-house, returned as mysteriously as she dis- 
appeared ? 

That was impossible; besides, he still clung to the cov- 
eted wealth, and he could not forego his revenge : that 
was sweeter even than the gold. 

But he felt that something must be done, and that 
quickly, if he was to be successful. Clare’s illness was a 
great drawback, also ; he had prepared for it, but did not 
dream of its taking this form. A month’s, or even a 
week’s delay would ruin everything ; and here was Clare 
unconscious still, and Robson unable to say when a 
change would come. And Charteris, too, to break down 
like a sniveling woman, just when he wanted him to be 
cool and collected ! He must make another attempt to 
see him the next day. 

Little Guy, too, he found one too many, and dark 
thoughts crossed his mind of putting the child out of the 
way at once and forever, in case of failure. Murder had 
not been included in his plans, at first. Once, in the 
far Indian country, years ago, he had not hesitated when 
a human life had stood between him and his object. 
Then, however, Robson was so completely broken- 
spirited, and felt himself so entirely in his, Forrester’s 
power, that he had had no difficulty (aided by the tardy 
and irregular ‘‘justice” of the country, particularly where 
only a native was concerned) in putting off all risk on 
him. He, himself, escaped without suspicion ; his tool, 
or victim, if not without suspicion, without conviction. 

4* 


42 


CHARTER IS. 


But here in England he had not the same chance, and 
even now, when the disappearance of Clare and Guy was 
so easily and readily accounted for by the river, and the 
country had settled down to an opinion that they were 
drowned, even now he hesitated, for there was still risk 
of discovery, and he was not quite so sure of Robson. 
Altogether, his meditations were not couleur de rose, as he 
threaded his way over the rankly-grown grass, and the 
few early-fallen leaves under the oaks and elms, up the 
hill to the Towers. 

Until Forrester’s visit, Guy Charteris had done nothing 
but sit in his wife’s room, or pace its length. I don’t 
believe he thought about anything or made any plans ; he 
was stunned, and let the days slip by without knowing 
how they passed. 

Afterwards, he went over the mansion ; he ordered that 
nothing belonging to his wife should be touched, nor any 
arrangements she had made should be altered. Her 
morning-room was just as she had left it. The fellow 
to the glove Shott found was lying on the table with 
her garden-hat, just as she had taken them off. Her hus- 
band had laid his head upon them, and had moaned 
out his grief over them; but he had not raised them 
from where they lay. A book of poems lay open on 
the sofa, with a piece of lace thrown across to mark the 
page. Her work, some infinitesimal garment trimmed 
with daintiest lace and embroidery, lay half in, half out of 
her basket, with the threaded needle in it, just as she had 
put it down, perhaps to answer some childish appeal of 
Guy’s, for a toy of the boy’s was lying near on the floor, 
and her thimble had rolled off to one corner of the sofa, 
half hidden in the crevice between the seat and back. 

Some flowers were in the vases in the drawing-room 
and dining-room, just as she had fixed them. And as she 


CHARTERIS. 


43 


had done so, what anticipations of meeting the husband, in 
whose honor they had been arranged, had made her sweet 
eyes bright ! The water dried in the vases, and the flowers 
faded and fell away untouched by other hagds. Her dress- 
ing-room and bed-room each bore marks of her recent 
presence, and were undisturbed. Then, leaving the house 
in charge of Benson and the housekeeper, he journeyed 
with no particular intention up to London, and two days 
afterwards found himself on board a vessel bound for New 
York, with the faithful Shott as his only compagnon de 
voyage. 

When Forrester, two days after his first visit to Char- 
teris, repeated it, he was told that the master had left in 
the train which had started only an hour ago. He fol- 
lowed him, but was unable to find him at his club or 
whereabouts he had secured lodgings. Enraged at this 
failure, he had recourse to the comfort of a glass of 
brandy, and the taste of the liquor once upon his tongue 
he must have more ; and so, before he again knew what 
he was about, Guy Charteris had left England, and all his 
hopes and plans were dashed to earth. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The passing months brought surcease of all sorrow to 
Clare Charteris. Not in the great mercy of her death, — 
that would have been indeed a blessing, but would have 
been too great a relief to the miserable man who had 
wrought her great undoing, — but in a living death which 
was next best. 

Her mind never recovered the shock and suffering of 


44 


CHARTER IS. 


that fearful night, and when she was once more com- 
paratively well, it was found she was a mental wreck. 
Neither did she recover physically in full; paralysis had 
laid its stern touch upon her limbs, and she was as help- 
less as a baby. She was never violent, and gave little 
trouble ; and one spark of the former light remained in 
her love for Guy. She was perfectly happy when her boy 
was with her, and uneasy in his absence. Fortunately, Guy 
was not afraid of her. He would look up at her some- 
times with a strange wonder in his eyes, — a look that 
made George Robson turn away. But the child called her 
“Mamma,” and the name would evoke a sweet, loving 
smile on the wan face, and an expression as if it brought 
back to the poor weak brain some dim recollection which 
the shattered intellect could not shape into proper form. 

Over and over again did Forrester ask Robson if there 
would ever be any change. But he could only shake his 
head. For once Fate, or whatever ruled the world in 
Forrester’s ideas of such things, had been too much for 
him. He had been so used to success in all his villainies, 
that he could not comprehend the failure now. He had 
not been often to Brandon Towers as the days went on, 
but soon after Guy Charteris sailed for New York he 
came. The household still consisted only of the woman 
Sarah Hawkesly and the Hindu valet. The villagers at 
Brandon and Charteris were still suspicious of the woods 
around the Towers, and even when once in a long time 
any of them had business there, the high wall and heavy 
wooden gate, equally high, prevented any surprise, and 
no one was admitted within the enclosure. The Hindu 
could speak very little English, only enough to assist him 
in his catering errands to the village, and the woman 
never left the house. What hold Forrester had on this 
woman Robson never knew, although he guessed it pretty 


CHAR TER IS. 


45 


correctly; she was perfectly silent on her own affairs, and 
seldom spoke on other subjects. At first he was afraid to 
leave Clare alone with her, there was such a fierce hate in 
her eyes when she looked at her ; but wjien Clare sank 
into this miserable state, only pity was shown in the 
woman’s face, and she could not do too much or show 
enough tenderness to her and Guy. And she evinced, in 
a quiet way, a strong detestation of Forrester. At which 
he only laughed. Forrester had written to Robson the 
news of Guy’s departure from England ; and two days 
after the letter was received he descended upon the little 
household like a thunder-clap. 

“ He’s lost, — the vessel a wreck, and all hands lost but 
one sailor !” 

“Who?” asked George. 

“ Damn you, don’t play the fool! who but he — he — ” 
pointing to little Guy, who had paused in his playing, 
and looked up in astonishment. “ Do you comprehend 
now? Gone, and all my plans frustrated 1” 

“Well, what are you going to do?” asked Robson, 
quietly. 

“ Do I” and before Robson could interfere, he turned 
upon Guy and struck him to the floor, and would have 
kicked the life out of him, had not Robson sprung to the 
rescue. Then he turned upon his poor, helpless victim, 
and, catching her by the arm, shook her with the fierceness 
and strength of a tiger. Clare screamed with fright, and 
it was several hours before Sarah could quiet her. 

“ Is this story true? I can’t believe you I” said Robson, 
after Clare had been removed out of the room. 

“ Oh, that is a matter of indifference to me I The 
account of the shipwreck was in the papers where all 
could see it. Mr. Upham has no doubt of the truth of it ; 
no word has come from him to prove him to be living.” 


46 


CHARTER IS. 


The next day, little Guy having fallen asleep on the 
couch beside Robson, he was obliged to leave him for a 
moment, and when he returned he discovered Forrester 
standing at the child’s bedside with a bottle, and, as 
Robson perceived instantly by the odor in the room, a 
handkerchief soaked with chloroform, in his hands. 

It required but a moment for him to dash the bottle to 
the floor, and snatch the handkerchief away. 

“ George Robson, are you sane?” exclaimed Forrester, 
turning upon him. How dare you interfere with me?” 

I dare to prevent murder, whether you are the mur- 
derer or not, Gilbert Forrester.” 

A new role for you to play !” sneered the other. 

Come, none of that!” returned Robson, throwing 
his head back and looking Forrester full in the face. 

The time has come when this must cease ; come out of 
this, lest we wake the poor child, — for I have a few words 
for your private ear, and I think now the sooner they are 
spoken the better.” 

He opened the door and held it for his companion, who 
was so astonished by the suddenness of this change in 
Robson as to obey him silently and almost unconsciously. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Once more in the other room, Robson seated himself 
and motioned Forrester to a chair. 

‘‘Begin,” sneered the latter; “lam all attention.” 

“ It is well you are. I only add one word more — re- 
member.” 

“Really, Robson, that was well done 1 Pity when you 


CHAR TER IS. 


47 


were turned out of the army you did not go on the stage ! 
That tone and gesture were worthy of Kean himself.” 

Robson made no answer, but regarded his companion 
calmly and steadily. 

“ Gilbert Forrester,” he said at last, you are a greater 
devil than I thought you, but I know you now ! Nothing 
that I could be told of you after this could surprise me, 
for I believe there is no^wickedness great enough to check 
you.” 

“I feel honored by your high opinion, so frankly ex- 
pressed !” 

‘‘Blit,” continued Robson, “you are mistaken in one 
thing, — you have no longer a tool in me. It was not wise 
in you to force me into this seclusion, with such a care 
upon my hands. The sight of Clare Charteris’ sufferings, 
the innocent prattle and love of her boy, were more 
eloquent, more powerful for change in me, than all the 
sermons in the world. The change is made, and I am 
no longer the George Robson you met in the London 
coffee-house. In spite of my duties here, I have found 
sufficient time to make a full and free confession of your 
sins and my own, and, having sworn to the truth of the 
statements made in the paper, before a notary, have left 
it, sealed, in the hands of a friend of mine in Barnstaple, 
with proper directions when and where to read and make 
known the contents. I have written an exact and full 
account of the life of Sir Gilbert Forrester, and doubtless 
the English public will enjoy the reading.” 

Forrester sprang upon him with a fearful oaTh. But 
Robson drew a pistol from his breast, and advised him to 
be seated. 

“I have not finished, by any means; when I have I 
will be ready to listen to whatever arguments you may 
wish to use, and to answer them in kind. I am going to 


48 


CHARTER IS. 


take your victims away, where you will never be able to 
injure them.” 

You are ! Upon my soul, you have come out in a new 
character this evening, with a vengeance !” 

‘‘It is time,” replied Robson. 

“ You forget the father is dead, — you can look for no 
reward for your virtue from him ; and Clare and Guy 
being out of the way, who is to prevent me from walking 
into the rest of my uncle’s property?” He paused a mo- 
ment, and watched Robson’s face. “It will be more to 
your interest to stick to me, man, — I am your best 
friend.” 

“Friend? Fiend !” exclaimed Robson. “But I had 
forgotten — yes, I see now — I understand !” 

“You do? Well, I am glad. Now, do you propose to 
take Guy away?” 

“I do ; more than ever. The tables are turned, Gilbert 
Forrester ; beware how you forget that fact ! If I give no 
orders to the contrary, in seven days’ time the paper I 
spoke of will be public. It depends upon you whether it 
shall be or not.” 

“ Damn you ! what do you want ?” 

“ Oh, that is better; I’ll tell you what I want in a few 
words. I mean to take Clare and Guy away, and to take 
care of them. But you must set aside sufficient main- 
tenance for them, — not merely enough for food and 
clothing, but to educate and keep Guy as a gentleman’s 
son. And this arrangement must be made permanently, — 
not to be set aside by any after-events, such as your mar- 
riage, or — do you understand me?” 

Forrester had been sitting with folded arms and a sneer- 
ing smile on his lips. He did not change his position ; 
only nodded his head. 

“ On that condition and no other I will keep my own 


CHAR TER IS. 


49 


counsel and withdraw that dangerous document from my 
friend’s hands. But stop !” seeing the other made a move- 
ment to rise, “you don’t e.scape me so easily. The last 
condition is a rather hard one, but one I shall exact more 
than all the others. Before I leave England I will witness 
a will made by you, leaving to Guy all the property you 
will receive on account of Guy Charteris’ death, and to 
Clare, if she survives you, a comfortable maintenance.” 

“ Upon my soul, a pretty arrangement !” 

“ One you will find it expedient to come into.” 

“ I think not.” 

“ Do you forget the little story I have written ?” 

“ No ; but I don’t believe you. I don’t think you are 
quite a fool, and you know your own life would be the 
penalty, as well as mine!” 

“ I know that. Do you suppose life is so great a boon 
to me that I should hesitate to lose it, ?>o you did not 
escape ? Heavens, man 1 every one is not the heartless, 
cruel fiend, lost to all human feeling, you are !” 

“ I certainly did not expect to find such exquisite sen- 
sibility in you at this late day 1” 

“ Then you are agreeably surprised, I hope. Had you 
left me to the life I had drawn out for myself, I might, in 
spite of the past, have found existence as sweet as the 
generality of men do ; but my evil fortune — my destiny, 
I suppose I must call it — discovered me when you stum- 
bled over me in the coffee-house, and I was weak enough 
to yield to it. I became once more your tool, — once 
more a slave to remorse and sorrow, — till now, except for 
these helpless ones, I care not to live; for, as I said be- 
fore, you made a wrong move when you left this task to 
me. The scenes I have witnessed here, the long, solitary 
hours which I have spent, with no companion but that 
innocent child and foully-wrecked woman, — thinking — 

5 


c 


50 


CHARTER IS. 


thinking, — ^have wrought a change at which I am surprised 
myself.” 

Forrester did not answer, and the two sat for some mo- 
ments silent. Then Robson said, — 

” Well, do you agree? Remember, my life is nothing 
to me, except for their sake; and if that paper is made 
public, they will find friends enough.” 

Yes ; damn you ! I can do nothing else !” 

Two weeks after this, all was arranged. A yacht be- 
longing to Forrester dropped down from Liverpool to the 
mouth of the river, and one night the mother and child 
were conveyed on board, the sails spread for the Mediter- 
ranean ; and Brandon Towers was left once more to the 
undisturbed possession of bats and owls. The weeds grew 
up in the courtyard, and the grass was greener and the 
wild flowers bloomed more freely at the roots of the elm- 
tree near the gate. 


BOOK SECOND. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Sad, very sad were Guy Charteris’ musings as the good 
ship Alectro sped on her way down the channel, and he 
saw the shores of England fading from his sight. The 
vessel had quite a large number of passengers, but, except 
to give a courteous good-morning” or ‘‘good-night,” 
he spoke to no one. Among the passengers were a lady 
and gentleman, — father and daughter, — who also seemed 
to avoid the rest, and be satisfied with their own society. 
But this seclusion was sought by Mr. Thornton, because of 
his rapidly-failing health ; and by Margaret, because the 
world was looking very sombre to her just then. She was 
very devoted to her father, and tended him most carefully 
during his walks on deck, or when she could be of use to 
him in the cabin. But when she had a few moments to 
herself, she would steal up on deck and sit in some con- 
cealed nook, gazing over the waters with a hopeless, longing 
look in her eyes that could not be put into words. Guy 
Charteris often noticed her, although he never sought to 
break the barrier of silence between them. It seemed as 
if the secret sorrow from which both were suffering was 
an unconscious attraction. 

And so the good ship sped on her way, and was soon 
out upon the broad Atlantic. But here her fate met her. 

' 51 


52 


CHARTERJS. 


One of those fierce winds, that are so much dreaded, came 
upon them, and, though every sail was furled, and all that 
human knowledge could do was done to prevent the dire 
catastrophe, the vessel scudded with bare poles before the 
wind into the dangerous waters of the Bay of Biscay, and 
was wrecked almost in sight of the shores of France. The 
news of the shipwreck was carried to England by a sailor 
who was picked up by a vessel returning to Liverpool, 
after drifting at the mercy of wind and waves for thirty- 
six hours, upon a broken mast to which he had lashed him- 
self. This man believed himself the only one saved, for 
he had seen the ship’s boats capsized, with their human 
freight, and had left two of the male passengers and one 
female and a dog on the fragment of the wreck from which 
he had sprung into the water to try and float to land. 

Gilbert Forrester was in Scotland when he heard the 
news. He wrote immediately to some acquaintance in 
London and to Mr. Upham, Guy’s lawyer, and received 
confirmation of the intelligence. Instead of proceeding 
at once to London, he paid that visit to Devonshire which 
we have recorded in the last chapter. There he was forced 
into George Robson’s plans, and they were pressed upon 
him so closely that he was glad, only too glad, to satisfy 
him, and see him* out of England before he took the time 
to pay Mr. Upham a visit, and claim his cousin Clare’s 
property as sole surviving relative. This delay was un- 
fortunate. 

The day upon which the “ Sea-gull” yacht, with Clare 
and Guy and their self-appointed guardian, sailed from 
St. George’s Channel, Mr. Upham was seated in his office, 
looking over the paper which contained the account of 
the shipwreck, and recalling, with a sigh, the kindly 
pleasant face of Guy Charteris, meditating on the sad fate 
which had swept away that happy household in so short a 


CHAR TER IS. 


53 

time, when the door opened and the object of his thoughts 
stood before him. 

Yes; pale, and haggard, and weary-looking, still it 
was Guy Charteris himself who walked slowly into the 
room, and, holding out his hand, said, — 

“ Am I like one risen from the dead to you ?” 

‘‘ God bless my soul !” was all Mr. Upham could for a 
moment ejaculate. 

*‘I dare say you are surprised,” said Guy, smiling 
sadly and seating himself, seeing the lawyer was too be- 
wildered to remember politeness. “The boon of eternal 
rest does not come when it is most longed for, and out 
of all the living souls, many full of dreams and plans for 
the future, and bright hopes of happiness to come, who 
were in the doomed ship, only I, for whom life has neither 
hope or happiness, and two others are saved.” 

“God bless my soul!”' Mr. Upham had to take off 
his spectacles and wipe them several times before he could 
see his visitor clearly ; and he relieved his feelings by 
repeating the above exclamation in several different tones, 
before he demanded to know the full particulars. 

They were soon told. Providence had drifted him, 
with an old gentleman and his daughter and the dog, 
upon some rocks, where a fishing-boat found them, and 
carried them into Cherbourg, where he had left his com- 
panions in misfortune as soon as he ascertained that they 
would recover from the effects of the exposure. 

Then Mr. Upham showed him Forrester’s letter, in 
which he announced his intention of calling upon the 
lawyer as soon as he returned to London, and spoke of 
himself as Clare Charteris’ heir. 

Guy had always had a kindly feeling towards Forrester, 
black sheep as he was, and could not .understand the 
aversion Clare had felt for him. But the letter he read 

5 * 


54 


CHAR TER IS. 


revealed something of the man’s true character, and dash- 
ing it down, with a gesture of disgust, he drew a sheet of 
paper towards him and wrote for several minutes. 

“There,” said he, pushing it towards Upham, “when 
Sir Gilbert Forrester calls, show him that j it will damp 
his ardor slightly.” 

It was an order or directions to Mr. Upham to retain 
and manage all property of which Guy Charteris was 
possessed, either in his own right or his wife’s, during his 
absence from England ; and in case of the reported death 
of Guy Charteris, no change or arrangen^ent of his affairs 
was to be made until ten years had passed. Dated the 
day he first left England. 

“But the date, — why is this, when I can simply tell 
him you are living? Besides, he will see you himself,” 
said the lawyer. 

“That I do not wish you to do,” replied Guy. “I 
have dated it so far back, as being written previous to 
my first departure. There is no proof of my death, — the 
sailor cannot say he saw any dead body, — consequently 
my last arrangements hold good still. I leave England to- 
morrow, and no one shall know of my existence but you, 
and you must swear to keep my secret.” 

After a long talk with Mr. Upham, who vainly at- 
tempted to change his plans, Guy left him, and, true to 
his word, the next night found him in Paris. 

When Gilbert Forrester called the next day, he was met 
by Mr. Upham with calm politeness, and, as soon as he 
broached the subject that had brought him, the lawyer 
handed him the document Guy had prepared. Foiled 
and disappointed, Forrester put no restraint upon his feel- 
ings, and stormed and raved in the lawyer’s office almost 
as wildly as he had done in the sitting-room at Br^don. 
His behavior and language were such that Mr. Upham 


CHARTER IS. 


55 


threatened the interference of the police, and, when his 
unwelcome visitor left him, he ordered his servant never 
to admit him again. 

Sad and hopeless were Guy Charteris’ thoughts, as he 
once more turned his face away from English shores. He 
had promised Mr. and Miss Thornton, his companions in 
misfortune, to meet them at Paris, and sail with them from 
Havre. During the storm he had been drawn to them 
by the old gentleman’s helplessness, and his daughter’s 
heroic efforts to lessen her father’s alarm, and save him, 
even if she herself was lost. 

There is nothing like such a danger and such scenes, 
passed through together, to awaken warm feelings of 
friendship, if not of love ; and it was with the first sensa- 
tion of satisfaction, not to say pleasure, that he had felt 
for a long time, that Guy met their pleased faces when 
he sought their address in Paris. Shott had shown his 
perfect appreciation of Miss Thornton by attaching him- 
self to her, and refusing to leave her when his master 
returned to England. 

The shock and exposure had been almost too much for 
Mr. Thornton, and he seemed very feeble. But he was 
only the more anxious on that account to reach home, for 
he was an American, and he anxiously waited for the day 
of the ship’s sailing. 

The Thorntons knew nothing of Charteris, except that 
he was an English gentleman ; he had given no account 
of himself, and they knew not whether the deep mourn- 
ing he wore was for wife or other relation. Miss Thornton 
quickly perceived that some great, crushing sorrow had 
fallen upon him, and she longed to comfort him, but 
shrank from seeking a confidence not freely given. She 
would watch his face when he fell into a melancholy reverie, 
as he often did. During the few days they remained in 


CHARTERIS. 


56 

Paris, Guy was very attentive and kind to the old man, 
but the daughter soon perceived that her company alone 
was painful to him, and consequently tried only to see him 
in the presence of her father. 

At last they left Paris, and were once more on board 
ship, where, if anywhere, owing to the close association 
and long seclusion, people soon learn to know each other 
intimately. But Guy held aloof from every one except 
Mr. Thornton, and Margaret only saw him when he sat 
each day a portion of the time with the old gentleman. 

After they had been out some days, Margaret Thorn- 
ton’s fears for her father were realized, and he began to 
sink rapidly. As he grew worse he depended more and 
more upon Guy, and did not want him to leave him. He 
took the opportunity while his daughter was exercising a 
little, or breathing the fresh air on deck, to tell Guy of 
his anxiety on her account, and of the arrangements he 
had made in her regard. She was his only child, and 
while he was not by any means wealthy, what he had to 
leave her would render her above any necessity for exer- 
tion, and be, in fact, a comfortable little fortune for a 
single person. His brother-in-law lived in New York, 
and he exacted a promise from Guy that he would not 
leave Margaret until he saw her safe in the shelter of her 
uncle’s house. 

The next day the end came. Guy stood with Margaret 
at the death-bed, and closed the old man’s eyes with 
gentle reverence. He supported her during' the solemn 
burial-service, and then consigned her to the care of some 
kind lady-passengers, who took her to themselves during 
the first violence of her grief. They were nearing New 
York when he saw her again. She was wrapped up 
warmly and pacing the deck with one of her lady friends 
when he joined her, and asked her to give him her atten- 


CHARTER IS. 


57 


tion for a little while. As soon as her companion left 
them, he began to tell her what arrangements her father 
had made for her future. The conversation naturally 
brought up memories of the lost, and her tears flowed 
freely. Guy knew well that all the wordy consolation in 
the world would make death nothing but death ; so he 
attempted none. But he told her in that sad hour of his 
own bereavement, and so won her from her own sorrow 
to sympathize with his. 

After seeing her safely to her uncle’s house, he bade 
good-by to his sad traveling companion and left her, 
never dreaming he would see her face again. 

The letters with which he had been provided on first 
leaving England were of course lost, but Mr. Upham 
had given him one to a friend living in Washington, and 
this he determined not to deliver for awhile. He knew 
two members of the English legation intimately, and 
dreaded meeting them. 

Leaving him thus, a stranger in a strange land, having 
found the change and the new scenes in which he hoped 
to discover the charmed Lethe, turn we back to England. 


CHAPTER 11. 

Raving and storming as if ten thousand devils were let 
loose in his heart, Gilbert Forrester sought his rooms 
after leaving Mr. Upham’s office. There he remained 
until his passion had spent itself, and then he took thought 
as to what next had best be done. 

The week following saw him a guest at Lord Camper- 
c* 


CHARTERIS. 


58 

donne’s castle, where was Miss Lee, the only daughter and 
heiress of the gallant old General Sir Henry Lee. 

Forrester had turned over a new leaf ; Sarah Hawkesly 
was sent out of the way to the estate inherited from his 
uncle ; he shaved off his beard, leaving only a tawny 
moustache drooping over his thin, cruel lips. The day he 
appeared for the first time without his beard, he had been 
introduced to Miss Lee, and told of her expectations, — 
her dowry would be half a million, — and he had sought 
his own room for meditation upon his future plans. He 
was standing before his glass twisting his moustache with 
his long, slender, white fingers, when his eye rested upon 
an engraving of the garden scene in Faust, which hung 
on the opposite wall. He walked over to get a better 
look at it, then returned to his glass, and by a quick 
movement of his hand through his hair at his temples, 
drawing up his eyebrows at the outer corner, and giving 
his moustache also an upward twist with both hands, 
laughed with devilish pleasure at the reflection of himself. 
Gounod had not then written his opera, but if he had, 
and Hermans or Drayton had required a study for the 
Mephistopheles, they would have found all they wanted 
by glancing over his shoulder. 

An hour later he was the cavaliere servente of Miss Lucy 
Lee. 

No one possessed the savoir faire or savoir vivre to a 
greater degree than Sir Gilbert Forrester. To see him, 
dressed in faultless taste, with his light, tawny hair thrown 
carelessly back from his forehead, his military moustache 
drooping over his lip, which, when in motion, revealed the 
faultless teeth, — his blue eyes looking only innocent devo- 
tion and all kindly feeling, — who would have thought the 
scenes in the old tower at Brandon, or in Mr. Upham’s 
office — to go no further back — could have been possible ? 


CHAR TER IS. 


59 


Miss Lee knew nothing about it. She only felt the 
velvet glove, knowing nothing of the iron hand beneath 
it ; she saw what she supposed was the light of love in 
the blue eye, but not the sneering devil that was crouch- 
ing there, and which had shown so plainly in the Mephis- 
topheles picture ; she heard the careful and gentle modula- 
tions of a naturally musical voice, and knew not the tones 
it could assume. 

To her Gilbert Forrester was un homme sans peur et 
sans reproche, and so in the merry Christmas time he 
wooed her, and in the early spring won her — half a 
million. 

What time she felt the iron hand, or saw the sneering 
devil, or the changes in the musical voice grated on her 
horrified ears, I will not tell ; it is not necessary to the 
story. Their wedded life lasted eight years, and in that 
time three children were born to them, two boys and a 
girl, — the latter only a few months old when the poor 
mother died. Her two boys had preceded her to the grave, 
and only this girl-baby was left to her father’s tender mer- 
cies; and, strange to say, she found them very tender. 
By some wonderful influence his little daughter discovered 
the only corner of his cruel heart that was not callous. 
She crept in there, and grew into it until he could seldom 
bear to be parted from her. Henceforth he lived and 
schemed only for his darling Rose. 

But we anticipate. 


6o 


CHARTER IS. 


CHAPTER III. 

Meantime, what of George Robson and little Guy? 

The boy’s fifth birthday occurred soon after they left 
England ; he was so young Robson hoped all memory of 
the past would be lost, and he did all he could to make 
the child forget the last sad months, as far as possible, 
with such a terrible reminder as poor Clare was. 

Robson was puzzled what to do with Clare, — she was 
so perfectly helpless, and clung so to Guy’s presence. He 
felt, too, such a deep, abiding pity for the wreck of the 
once happy and lovely woman, that he had not the heart 
to do what common sense dictated, — put her into an asy- 
lum, where she would be tenderly and gently cared for. 
They cruised around the Mediterranean all through the 
winter months, spending sometimes a week, sometimes a 
month, in one of the Eastern ports, when Robson would 
take Guy ashore and show him all that was of interest or 
importance. 

At length, in the early spring, they put in at Marseilles ; 
and, in conversation with the p hysician who came on 
board to examine the condition of the yacht, and who 
became much interested in Clare’s state on seeing her 
and being told of the cause of it, Robson heard of an 
eminent medical man in Paris, who had wrought most 
wonderful cures. 

He immediately determined to proceed thither, and 
have the opinion of so successful a practitioner. He 
knew that Clare’s return to reason would entail ruin, and 


CHAR TER IS. 


6 


perhaps a disgraceful death upon himself, as well as upon 
Sir Gilbert, but he struggled firmly against the dread he 
felt of the consequences of discovery, and resolved to do 
all in hii power to restore the poor lady in whose destruc- 
tion he had been instrumental. 

Discharging the crew of the vessel, the middle of May 
found the little party nicely fixed in quiet lodgings in a 
quiet part of Paris. 

Immediately on his arrival, George Robson saw the 
physician to whom he had been recommended, and found 
in M. Gresset a most charming person. Gentle and kindly 
as a woman, at the same time a man of profound learn- 
ing, he entered from the first, with deep interest, into the 
case, not, of course, pronouncing at once whether he 
could cure her. He bestowed close and unremitting 
attention upon his patient all through the spring, and in 

July sent her to the celebrated mineral waters of B 

Here they remained all summer, and as the nurse whom 
M. Gresset had recommended to him in Paris proved 
faithful and efficient, Robson had time to take walks with 
Guy, and interest him in the charming scenery around. 
M. Gresset paid them two or three visits, and although 
to Robson’s less-practiced eye the change in Clare was 
imperceptible, yet the Frenchman seemed satisfied. On 
his last visit he essayed to raise her to her feet, and Rob- 
son was surprised to find she could stand for several 
minutes without support. 

There was no change in Clare’s mental condition, how- 
ever, and that was what Robson hoped for and yet 
dreaded. 

In the autumn they returned to Paris and remained two 
years longer; at the end of that time, thanks to M. 
Gresset, Clare was able to walk again. Her mind had 
strengthened also ; but the past was a perfect blank. She 

6 


62 


CHAR TER IS, 


acted rationally in all things connected with the present, 
but could not remember the least thing that happened 
before that fearful September evening. Robson felt that 
this was a reprieve, and, thankful for what had already 
been done, did not allow the impossible to distress 
him beyond measure. The memory of his crime was 
always with him ; how could it be otherwise with 
Clare and her boy his constant companions? But he 
felt now that he had done to the extent of his power 
in reparation, little as that was. As soon as Clare’s cure 
was decided, they left Paris to spend the summer in stray- 
ing among the Swiss mountains; as winter came on, at 
Guy’s request, they returned to that city for another six 
months. The boy seemed never to tire of it. Robson 
would not send him to school, but devoted a couple of 
hours in the mornings to certain studies, and afterwards, 
in their walks, lost no opportunity of illustrating what he 
had found in his books. He had already become quite 
at his ease in the language, and spoke it well ; indeed, he 
developed a wonderful lingual talent. 

Then the next two years passed in pleasant saunterings 
through Germany, Switzerland, and Italy, until, finally, 
they decided to fix themselves in Rome. Here Guy was 
in ecstasies, there was so much to see, so many discoveries 
to be made. He was now in his tenth year, a fine, manly 
boy, tall for his age, with his father’s curly brown hair, 
and his mother’s deep-blue eyes. 

Still, Robson did not send him to school ; he directed 
the boy’s education himself, and although he had pursued 
no regular system, only striving to point a moral and 
adorn a tale” from everything around them, was rewarded 
by Guy’s quick intelligence and love of learning ; and he 
really was more advanced in some studies than most boys 
of his age. They spent a year in Rome, or, I should say. 


CHAR TER IS. 


63 


two winters, leaving it for Switzerland during the hot 
months. In the second spring, on the morning of the 
25th of May, 1849, Clare died ; she was ill for only a few 
days, and died without any improvement in her mental 
state. Tenderly nursed by the sister of mercy whom 
Robson brought to her bedside, watched with anxious 
care by Robson and little Guy, her end was peaceful. 
And tenderly as he had cared for her, watching and 
battling with every symptom during her short illness, 
Clare’s death was a great relief to Robson. He felt as 
if a mountain had been lifted from his shoulders. 

Guy’s grief was like that of all children, a violent and 
bitter one, but soon diverted ; he did not forget his 
mother, however, but was amused and distracted, and 
soon learned to think of her with a quiet melancholy that 
was undemonstrative. 

One of the results of Guy’s residence in Rome had been 
to effect a change in his name ; the short, sharp sound of 
the English Guy did not come readily to Italian lips, and 
so he gradually lost it, being called altogether by a softer 
one, Giulio. Thus another question that had often puz- 
zled Robson, — for he had sometimes thought of returning 
to England, and feared the name would arouse suspicion, 
— without his own intervention, was settled for him. 
Wherever it had been necessary to register Guy’s name, 
he had written it as that of his nephew, Guy Conway;” 
he was only too glad to adopt the new substitute. The 
summer after Clare’s death, Robson proposed a new pro- 
gramme. Instead of visiting Switzerland, which in all 
the usual tourists’ routes they knew by heart, he sug- 
gested that they should make a leisurely saunter over to 
Trieste, and down the eastern coast of the Adriatic, trav- 
eling only when and how the humor seized them. The 
perfect freedom and Bohemianism of this idea pleased 


64 


CHAR TER IS. 


Guy exceedingly, and in the first part of July they began 
to put their plan in operation. 

They were very much interested in the quaint, old, 
dirty town of Trieste, and thence wandered pleasantly 
down, sometimes close along the Adriatic, sometimes 
making excursions up among the Julian Alps. In this 
way they reached Spalatra. Here they stayed a few days, 
making little picnic excursions into the neighborhood. 
In one of these they came across a cottage most delight- 
fully nestled at the foot of the mountains. The spot 
itself was a poem. The cottage stood a little distance 
back from the shore, just where the mountains began to 
rise; before it, gently laving the sands in front of the 
door, was the storied Adriatic, with its deep-blue waters, 
and its islands covered with olive-trees, supporting the 
vines heavy with their luscious fruitage. Behind it were 
the Dinaric Alps, covered with oak- and pine-trees, with 
here and there a few acres cleared for the olive and its 
attendant vine. Robson learned that the cottage was for 
rent, and Guy earnestly besought him to engage it. Of 
course Robson made no objection: it was all right if Guy 
were satisfied, — to him it mattered not where they set up 
their Lares. 

The latter part of September found them domiciled in 
their new abode. Robson enjoyed the peace of the scene, 
and Guy seemed never to tire of the new country. But 
at times the boy was very quiet. He would curl himself 
up in the window of the cottage, where he could see the 
sun dancing on the waves, and lose himself in reverie. 
Hitherto Robson had kept him away from the sea, fearing 
to awaken memories that were better dead ; but he had 
thought that after nearly eight years of constant change 
and diversion of thought from England, he might venture 
to indulge his own fondness for its sight and sound. It 


CHARTER IS. 


65 


was as a test of Guy’s memory that he had proposed the 
plan they had carried out the previous summer. He 
began, now they were quietly settled, and the excitement 
of their Bohemian life was passing away, to fear he had 
been premature, and as soon as he saw the far-off, absent 
look in Guy’s large, blue eyes, which were so like his 
mother’s, and the gesture he had from his father, of 
throwing back his dark curls from his forehead, as he 
settled himself in his favorite window, he would on some 
pretense rouse him from the train of thought, or call him 
to some occupation. He never asked Guy of what he 
was thinking, — he feared the answer. 

But the boy’s reveries were very confused. Seven years, 
at that time of life, is a long period, and his recollection 
of events previous to his leaving England was very dim. 
Still, he did remember something, and the sight of the 
sea was somehow mixed up with recollections of a tall 
gentleman, not at all like “Uncle George,” who he used 
to call “Papa;” of a large house, and plenty of people 
about ; of horses and carriages, and of a boat, — and of 
a lady very different from the quiet, childish invalid he 
called in later years “Mamma.” But he never spoke to 
Robson on the subject, never asked him to supply, if he 
could, the missing links in his chain of thoughts. Perhaps 
he shrank from exposing them with an inexplicable hesi- 
tancy, — perhaps he could not put his wants into words, 
they were so vague and shadowy. 

Music was a passion with the boy, even at this early 
age. Robson’s flute had been their constant companion, 
and had whiled away many an otherwise sad hour. Guy 
could play a little upon it, and understood the fingering; 
but his favorite instrument, the one he thoroughly and 
fondly loved, was the violin. For two years he had pos- 
sessed one, and had acquired no mean proficiency upon 

6 * 


66 


CHARTER IS. 


it, and had learned to love his instrument like an old 
friend. Often when alone he had sought to give his sad 
thoughts expression by the wondrous tones it held, and 
he and his “uncle” had learned duetts and played them, 
and studied and worked over their pets through the long 
winter evenings. For they spent the winter and next 
summer in their cottage by the sea. Of neighbors,* they 
had none very near, and what there were were peasant 
families, not very companionable. They did not go into 
Spalatro oftener than the domestic economy of their 
menage required. Robson on one or two occasions gave 
some medical advice to the neighboring peasants, and 
thus acquired, without any effort, quite a reputation, and 
his medical knowledge was called into requisition some- 
what oftener than he cared about. But one day an event 
occurred which gave him assistance and a friend when he 
most needed it. 

A peasant, living some distance from his cottage, sent 
word to him that he was very ill, and begged “ il signor 
dottore” to come as quickly as possible. 

Robson hurried up the mountain, and reached the peas- 
ant’s cottage a considerable time before sunset. He was 
detained in the outer room by the wife, who informed him 
that “ Padre Anselmo” was with her husband. 

Wishing the “padre” would make a short visit, in 
order that he could return to Guy before dark, Robson 
sat down on a stool just outside the door and waited. 

Presently the monk came out, and Robson rose to 
enter the room. He was about to pass with a simple 
response to the courteous bow of the other, when a glance 
at the monk’s face caused him to look again. Clad in 
the loose white Franciscan habit the figure was not notice- 
able ; but the face ! Perfect it would have been simply 
from the chiselled features, but there was a depth of 


CHARTER IS. 


67 

beauty in the expression, a divine light in the large, blue 
eye that held Robson for an instant spellbound. The 
cowl was thrown back on the shoulders and showed the 
dark-brown hair cut close, but even that could not dis- 
figure the lofty brow, from under which those wonderful 
eyes shone. It was the face of one who walked with God. 
Such a face as is seldom seen on this earth of ours, save 
in some Heaven-inspired picture by a Raphael or Da 
Vinci. 

The monk bowed and passed on, addressing a few 
words to the woman as he left the house, and Robson 
entered his patient’s sick-room. 

On his return to his own cottage, Robson overtook 
Father Anselmo, who was walking slowly, the better to 
read his office. But he closed the book as the other came 
up with him, and addressed him some trifling but pleasant 
remark. 

They spoke in French, as Robson was not quite enough 
at home in Italian to hold any lengthy conversation in 
that tongue. He discovered that ‘Mb signor dottore” 
was no stranger to the monk, for he had heard his praise 
sounded from many of the peasants’ lips. In the course 
of conversation Robson asked the monk what country- 
man he was, for he knew he could not be a native. 

I was born in Brussels,” was the reply. 

‘‘Belgium? and hiding yourself in this last of all corners 
of the earth !” exclaimed Robson. 

“God can be served here as well as elsewhere,” replied 
the monk. “There is much good to be done among the 
peasants.” 

‘♦Yes, but you are lost to all else ; how can you bear 
the isolation ?” 

“There is no isolation with God.” Father Anselmo 
raised his eyes to heaven, and his face looked as if they 


68 


CHAR TER IS. 


had almost pierced the skies and seen the glory of the 
Infinite. 

Robson was silent, and in a few moments they were at 
the monastery gate. It was in a different part of the 
mountain from his usual walks, and for this reason he had 
been ignorant of its existence. The building was a plain 
stone structure with a massive gateway, which bore this 
legend cut in the stone: 

“ What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole 
world, and lose his own soul?” 

^‘Is that your motto. Father?” asked Robson. 

“It is the inspiration which has drawn us here, and by 
which we strive to guide our actions,” replied the monk, 
simply. “ Will you not enter ?” 

“Not to-night, thank you, — my — my nephew ” 

His eyes fell before the clear ones of the monk as he told 
the lie. “ My nephew waits, and I am late.” 

“Another time, then?” said Father Anselmo. 

“Another time, gladly,” replied Robson; and, as he 
turned away, the clouds that had gathered round the set- 
ting sun burst asunder, and the golden radiance of his last 
beams flooded the old stone building, bringing into full 
relief the words above the gate : 

“What shall it profit a man, if he shall gain 

THE WHOLE WORLD, AND LOSE HIS OWN SOUL?” 


CHARTER IS. 


69 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was not many days before Robson and his “nephew” 
paid a visit to Father Anselmo. It was a pleasant change 
to the former to find in this out-of-the-way corner of the 
world a man of intelligence, cultivation, and refinement, 
and, notwithstanding the prejudices he had always enter- 
tained against monks and their church, he found him a 
most agreeable companion. 

Guy or “ Giulio” soon became a prime favorite with 
all within the monastery walls, and more particularly with 
the organist, who gave him lessons upon his instrument, 
and held the boy spell-bound by the stories of different 
composers, which he would relate to him apropos of some 
of their compositions. Often did the “twilight gray” 
creep in through the windows of the organ-loft and find 
the boy curled up in one of the seats, his head resting on 
his hands and his large blue eyes fixed upon the player’s 
fingers, lost in the dreams which some melody of Beetho- 
ven or Mozart, or some fugue by Bach, would evoke. 

One evening Robson was alone, Guy not having re- 
turned from the monastery, where he had been spending 
the day. (It was in the fall ; they had been in their cot- 
tage just a year.) Their one servant had been to Spalatro 
and brought thence a late English paper, that had been 
left by a chance traveler and had fidlen into the hands 
of one of his acquaintances. Robson seated himself on 
the bench outside the door, and looked over the familiar 
characters. The heat of the day was over, and the sun 
was sinking into the Adriatic, from which came a deli- 


70 


CHARTERIS. 


cious balmy air. Back, up the mountain, the path through 
which Guy was expected gleamed here and there among 
the oaks and pines, its white sand looking like a thread 
of silver. 

It was a thoroughly peaceful scene, familiar in all its 
tones and colors and sounds to Robson, yet none the less 
enjoyed by him before the newspaper was brought. And 
it was destined to live long in his memory in the after- 
years as the last happy (and he was comparatively happy 
now) hour he was ever to know. 

Letting the light die out over the waters of the tideless 
sea unnoted, in his eagerness to learn something of what 
life meant in that far-off England, from which he was a 
voluntary but regretful exile, Robson glanced over the 
paper; and presently, as he read a certain paragraph, it 
dropped from his hands, and he buried his face in them 
and groaned. Then he sprang up and paced the ground 
before the cottage with long, quick strides, and his face 
bore an expression of great anxiety. As he thus walked, 
Guy’s slight figure, clad in the picturesque dress of the 
country, was seen descending the mountain path, and 
quickly Robson picked up the paper he had let fall, and 
put it in his pocket. Guy had some message from Father 
Anselmo, and delivered it without noticing his uncle’s” 
manner, and was turning away, when Robson called him 
back. 

‘^Giulio, would you like to remain for awhile altogether 
with Father Anselmo? I have sudden business calling me 
to England, and this time I must travel alone.” 

“ To England ! Oh, Uncle George, take me with you ! 
please — please do !” 

“ I cannot, my boy, or I would. God knows I have 
no wish to part with you.” 

“ But why not, uncle; why can’t I go? You know I 


CHARTERIS. 


71 

have forgotten all about England, and I do so want to 
see the place where I was born !” 

‘‘Giulio, my boy, I cannot. Don’t press me/ for I 
cannot take you. But you will be happy with Father 
Anselmo, and you will not fret at my absence ?” 

The last question was asked in a beseeching tone. 
There was no sulkiness about Guy, and he yielded at 
once. 

*‘Well, if I can’t, I can’t. Oh, yes, i’ll be all right 
up with Father Anselmo.” 

All that night was spent, while Guy was wrapped in 
childhood’s peaceful slumbers, by Robson in looking over 
papers and writing; sheet after sheet was covered, and 
still he wrote on, until the dawn, peeping in at the little 
window, warned him to take some rest. 

As soon as their simple breakfast was over the two set 
out on their walk to the monastery, carrying between 
them Guy’s slight wardrobe and little treasures. On their 
arrival, Robson was closeted a long time with Father Ari- 
selmo, while the boy sought the organist, whom he found 
in his loft looking over some scores. 

When Robson had finished his business with Father 
Anselmo, they sought the boy together, and his uncle 
lingered until nearly nightfall before he could bring him- 
self to say good-by. When they did part, Guy’s lip 
trembled and his eyes were very bright, 'but’ he kept the 
tears back, at least until he was alone. Robson took him 
in his arms and pressed him close to his breast, then with 
one long look tore himself away. Had he a prescience 
of what was to happen ere they met again ? 

On his return to the cottage, Robson dismissed the ser- 
vant after charging him to keep the little place in his 
mind, and care for it until his return, which he said was 
very indefinite : he might be back in a month or six weeks. 


72 


CHAR TER IS. 


but it might be longer. As soon as the man was gone, 
Robson again drew the paper from his pocket and re-read 
the paragraph which had affected him so deeply. It was 
as follows : 

‘‘A most singular and fortunate event has occurred. 
The friends of Guy Charteris, Esq., of Charteris Manor, 
Devonshire, will be delighted to know that the rumor of 
his loss in the Alectro, nine years ago, was a mistake; the 
gentleman is alive and well, and has returned to England 
with his wife, an American lady (whom he married on the 
25/A of May y 1849). reappearance is a timely one, 

for he is the next heir to the Earldom of Straithness, in 
Scotland, the last holder of the title being a distant cousin 
and the last of the direct line. As our readers already know, 
the demise of the late earl was sudden : he was thrown 
from his horse, and so seriously injured as to survive only 
a few hours. As our readers will see, by glancing at the 
peerage, the deceased nobleman was in his twenty-fourth 
year, and had been married only five months.” 

This was the intelligence which had flashed up at Rob- 
son from the paper, and caused his hurried determination 
to return to England. Now, for the first time since he 
had read it, he was alone, — alone with his memories and 
his remorse ; alone with his conscience and his God. 

The sun sank into the glistening waves; night’s cool- 
ing zephyrs sprang up; the flowers closed their petals and 
drooped their heads ; the birds sang their even song of 
praise, and sought their lofty resting-places ; yet the sob- 
bing of the waves upon the beach never ceased, and the 
restlessness of the sea was like the restlessness of him who 
paced its shore the whole night through, struggling with 
his agony. And nature, in her beauty and her majesty^ 
had no sympathy with the human sufferer. How can she 
have, made as she was for man as he came forth from 


CHARTER IS. 


73 

the hands of his Creator, not for his fallen, sinful hu- 
manity ? 

The earliest dawn saw Robson on his way to Trieste; 
thence, as fast as steam could bear him, to England. 


CHAPTER V. 

Guy Charteris bade good-bye to Miss Thornton at 
her uncle’s door, and turned his sad steps — whither? 

A stranger in a strange land, he felt with double force 
his desolation. He knew that no one in all that broad 
continent had thought for him; no one expected him; he 
had no loving breast to turn to and breathe out his sorrow. 
Neither in the new land he had sought nor the old one he 
had left was there a human heart beating responsive to his 
own. He had never realized this before, and now the 
idea came upon him with appalling force. He had been 
an orphan from his sixteenth year, with no relations save 
some distant ones in Scotland whom he had never seen, 
and for whom he had no particular affection nor felt any 
particular interest ; but marrying as he did before he was 
twenty, and living a life of quiet retirement and social 
enjoyment of only such friends as he and Clare cared to 
draw around them, until the fearful blow that had shat- 
tered his happiness forever, he had not realized how 
really alone he was outside of that charmed home circle. 
But as he turned away from Judge Neally’s door and de- 
scended the steps into the street, he sighed and wondered 
what he should do next. He returned to the hotel to 
which he had sent his valise, for he had not replaced more 

7 


D 


74 


CHARTER IS. 


than was absolutely necessary of his lost baggage, and 
spent a sad and lonely evening with, except Shott, no 
companion but his heavy thoughts. 

Rousing himself at last from his reverie, he was about 
to ring for Harris, when he remembered where he was, 
and smiled bitterly as he proceeded to open his valise 
himself. While he was about this unusual act, one of the 
hotel-servants knocked at the door and entered, carrying 
a coal-scuttle in his hand and a couple of towels thrown 
over his arm. Seeing the ‘‘furrin gent” fumbling at the 
lock, as if he was unused to opening it, he kindly offered 
to do it for him. 

** Thank you, my man,” said Guy, who was always 
considerate of his inferiors. 

‘‘And maybe the jintleman would be looking for a 
valley?'' asked the waiter in a broad brogue. 

“ It would be just as well to secure one before I leave,” 
replied Guy. “ Do you know of a servant I could hire to 
travel with me for the next few years?” 

“Faix and it’s meeself as will be that same, sir.” 

Charteris looked at the man attentively, and read his 
character in his open, pleasant face. 

“But are you not engaged here as waiter? and do you 
know what is required of a gentleman’s servant?” 

“ Sure and it’s meesel’ as should know, and none 
better. Wasn’t I own man to Sir Thornton Allen, and 
niver a lavin’ of him till his death in ’36, and thin I jist 
took lo roamin’ and corned over here; and, sir, as for my 
place here, why there’s nagurs upon nagurs as would be 
glad to get it sure, and it was only to-day I was a thinkin’ 
of lavin’, sir !” 

“Well, I’ll see about it to-morrow; your name is ?” 

“Dennis O’Flaherty, sir.” 

“Very well, Dennis, we’ll see what arrangement can 


CHAR TER IS. 


IS 

be made to-morrow, and now you need not remain any 
longer.” 

During this short colloquy, Dennis had shown himself 
not only quick-handed, but perfectly au fait in the business 
for which he offered himself, and Mr. Charteris found 
everything that he needed for his toilet taken out of the 
valise and arranged neatly to his hand. 

Two days after, he and Dennis started on their travels. 
He wandered over the broad continent at his will, with- 
out any fixed plan, or any desire to rest ; yet he could 
not find the forgetfulness he sought, the memory was ever 
with him of all the happiness and hope and love that had 
died out of his life on that fearful September afternoon. 

Over the vast prairies of the West ; down the “ Father 
of Waters,” from its source to its mouth; through the 
cotton plantations of the South ; and beneath the burning 
sun of Cuba, did Dennis O’ Flaherty follow his sad master 
in the vain quest of Lethean waters, — as vain a quest as 
that of the Spaniards of old for the fountain of Perpetual 
Youth through the wilds of Florida. 

Seven years were spent in this aimless wandering, and 
then Guy Charteris found himself once more in New 
York. He had only been in the city a few days, when 
he was stricken down by an illness he had been fighting 
off for some time. Dennis nursed him as devotedly as he 
had served him, but what man’s nursing-care can equal a 
woman’s? Attentively as the physician watched and 
Dennis cared for him, there was something wanting, and 
the sick man missed the gentle voice, the softly falling 
step, the soothing touch which, once before, on the only 
occasion upon which he had needed nursing, ministered 
to his wants. He did not get better, and the doctor was 
almost in despair when Providence interposed, and the 
sick man was saved. 


76 


CHARTER IS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

We left Margaret Thornton just returned from that 
hapless sea- voyage, delivered by her temporary guardian 
into her uncle’s care. While the three years had been 
passed in sad, heart-broken wanderings by Guy Charteris, 
the wheel of fortune — the waves of life — had not stood still 
for her. She mourned deeply and truly for her father. 
She had nursed and watched him for years, and all her 
tender care and thought for him had grown so much like 
second nature that she felt the loss doubly. This trip to 
Europe had been taken in the vain hope of saving his 
life, and now it was all over. Her occupation for so 
many years was gone ; faithfully she had done her duty, 
and now — was she to meet with her reward ? 

Yes ; but in a way she never dreamed of. 

Years before, when the first symptoms of the disease 
had just begun to show themselves in her father, and they 
regarded as a passing temporary illness what was to end 
his life — when, too, life with all its hopes and youth with 
all its anticipations were opening out before her like a tale 
of wondrous fairie-lore — Margaret Thornton had been 
wooed and won. But she could not, would not leave 
her father then^ and year after year passed, and still the 
hope was hers that next year she certainly could yield to 
her lover’s importunities and crown his happiness and her 
own, without neglecting her filial duties. The time, how- 
ever, never came. And by degrees the lover’s first fervor 
cooled; he became more the kind friend — the tender 
brother — gradually grew cooler even in these feelings, until 


CHARTERIS. 


77 


the European trip, necessitating an absence of three or 
four years, weaned his heart from her entirely, and he 
sought happiness in another love. For some time be- 
fore their return-voyage, his letters to Margaret had been 
growing irregular, and at length ceased. But she attributed 
it more to the changing life they led, and hoped every 
thing would be made right when they were together 
again. She was not prepared then for the news that met 
her of his marriage. 

So when she once more set foot upon her native land, 
there was no one for whom her coming made sunlight in 
a dark day, whose eyes rested on her with fond, attentive 
gaze, striving with love’s untiring zeal to win a smile 
again upon the sad and weary lips. 

Her uncle was a bachelor, by profession a lawyer, and 
immersed in business. After a cold kiss of welcome, a 
shake of the hand, a few inquiries as to how she had got 
along and some regrets, politely, but merely as a matter 
of form, expressed, that his brother-in-law had not at 
least been able to reach home, he handed his niece over 
to his housekeeper and thought he had done his duty. 

Thus, the first year of her mourning and her return to 
what she still, from habit, called ‘^home,” was rendered 
doubly sad by her utter isolation. For who has not felt 
the changes that occur among familiar scenes during a few 
years’ absence, and realized the truth of Longfellow’s 

words : , ^ 

" Season and scene come back again, 

And outward things unchanged remain. 

The rest we cannot reinstate, 

Ourselves we cannot recreate ; 

Nor set our souls to the same key 
Of the remembered harmony.” 

And Margaret had been five years away, and, besides, 
she was no longer a young girl. She was twenty-four. 

7 * 


CHARTERIS. 


78 

Youth and its dreams and fancies were over for her, and 
yet she had no ties, no family duties, to take their place. 
The time hung heavy, sometimes, on her hands; wander- 
ing through the old house, and trying to read or sew ; or 
walking the familiar streets, that still were so unfamiliar ; 
meeting friends and acquaintances whom she had known 
under such different circumstances, now busy with their 
own pleasures or duties and almost like strangers. No 
wonder she began to feel desperate and to pray for some 
change. 

The change came in the second year after her return, in 
the sudden death of her uncle. By his will she was left 
his heiress, and found herself quite a wealthy woman. 
But the wealth soon melted away, swamped in one of 
those great crises that happen so frequently. And so she 
was obliged to earn her daily bread by any means within 
her power. 

She taught music, and tramped her weary round from 
house to house and patiently bore with the tortures of 
her nerves as her pupils pounded through their lessons. 
Meantime her former lover was a widower, and at liberty 
to claim her promise once more if he had wished ; but he 
did not — the years passed and he gave no sign. Perhaps she 
had expected he would. She never said so even to herself ; 
on the contrary, she tried to drive the thought of him 
away when it came unbidden to her mind. Only when 
she heard of his wife’s death, there was a strange swelling 
in her heart, that was not sympathy for him altogether, 
but an indescribable feeling of pain and pleasure, and 
memory went busily to work recalling all the sweet scenes 
and hours of the long ago. Then as month succeeded 
month and he gave no thought to her, her heart sank down 
like lead into her bosom ; she plucked the last faded hope 
out of it with a fierce scorn at herself and it, and went 


CNARTEJ^IS. 


79 


her way. But our hearts play us queer tricks sometimes ; 
and as this state of feeling died away, she found herself 
recurring more and more frequently to the memory of 
Guy Charteris, and wondering what had become of him. 
She thought with a pensive tenderness of his kindness at 
the time of her great trouble, and that he was the only 
one who was truly sympathetic — opening the recent wound 
of his own sorrow, so great and crushing, to help her to 
bear hers the easier. She thought and thought, and the 
more she thought the stronger grew the desire to see him 
again. Not that she ever expected to do so, or had any 
dreams for the future with which he was connected. For 
was she not now thirty, and had not the slight attractive- 
ness her youth might have bestowed upon her face gone? 

One day she was giving a music-lesson to the daughter 
of one of the most distinguished physicians in the city, 
when the father of her pui-il came in in a state of great 
excitement, and sought the parlor where his wife was 
sitting and where the lesson was in progress. He said, 
‘‘I have just come from that Englishman at the Astor, 
Jane, and I am very anxious about him ; he needs a 
female nurse ; not one of these hired women — I don’t 
think even a Sister of Charity would do, though I mean to 
go to the hospital this afternoon and ask for one ; but I 
wish, if he had a wife, she could be with him now !” 

Margaret’s pupil stopped playing, and Margaret turned 
to the doctor. 

“Poor fellow!” returned the doctor’s wife. “I wish 
something could be done for him. Can’t he be moved 
here?’^ 

“ No, he can’t; or I’d had him at the Sisters’ hospital 
long ago— that’s the best place for him. That valet of 
his is as good as gold and as faithful, but poor Charteris 
needs a woman to nurse him back to life.” 


8o 


CHARTERIS. 


“Charteris!” Margaret started up; doctor!” 

then she sat down again. 

“ Do you know him, Miss Thornton?” 

<< Yes — no — I don’t know — I thought maybe it was the 
same gentleman who — who — came over with us.” 

‘^Ah, yes, I remember,” replied the doctor. ‘‘Well, 
maybe he is; he has an Irish servant, Dennis.” 

“ When we were together he had no servant ; so it may 
not be he. Is he tall and slight, with a small head, thickly 
curling brown hair, and light-blue eyes?” 

“Yes! that is he! Come, get your bonnet and come 
with me,” exclaimed the doctor. 

“But, Henry,” began his wife — 

“ To the devil with the proprieties when there’s a 
human life to save, my dear. I beg your pardon. Miss 
Margaret. Not another word, Jane — Miss Margaret, shut 
up the piano and adjourn your lessons to some future time ; 
this hour is to be devoted every day to my patient, and a 
few others, too, if I can manage it.” 

And thus it was that Margaret Thornton took her place 
at Guy Charteris’s bedside ; and soon, as the doctor said, 
for more than one hour a day — for all day. For whis- 
pering tongues can poison truth,” and some lie or other 
was spread by degrees, and one by one, on some pretext 
or another, pupil after pupil was withdrawn. Margaret 
never knew exactly why, — some plausible reason was always 
given ; but the doctor seemed to know, and as first one 
and then another was taken away, he swore many an 
angry oath at the narrow-minded fools, and ended by in- 
sisting upon Margaret making his house her home. 

But we anticipate slightly. Margaret was a natural 
nurse, and did her duty tenderly and carefully. The 
kind doctor rubbed his hands and looked satisfied and 
hopeful over his patient, and praised his nurse to all. Guy 


CIIARTEI^IS. 


8i 


called her Clare,” and would scarcely let her leave him j 
and when he woke at length from the fell disease, his 
hand was gently clasped in hers, and her face was the 
first his natural glance rested on. 


CHAPTER VIL 

Margaret Thornton sat in her room at kindly, bluff 
Dr. Schroeder’s, her hands lying idly in her lap, and her 
eyes fixed upon the waving tree-tops that hid the street 
from her sight. Not that she saw them or cared that they 
stood between her and the busy life below ; her thoughts 
were far, far away, and scalding tears were streaming down 
her cheeks. Guy Charteris needed her care no longer, 
but she had only one scholar left, and she felt herself a 
pensioner upon the kindness of the physician and his wife; 
and though everything was done by them and by their 
only child, her one remaining pupil, to make her feel 
contented, she could not be so. It had gradually dawned 
upon her when it was too late why her services were no 
longer needed by her scholars, and at first a proud anger 
had prevented her from realizing the full extent of the 
mischief. It was only when Dr. Schroeder, through his 
wife, insisted upon her making her home with them, and 
insisted, too, upon remunerating her for her instruction 
to Carrie as before, that she began to see it. She felt 
deeply grateful to them, — but none the less dark and 
bitter did the future look to her. 

And now while she sits there, absorbed in her sad 
thoughts so deeply that she does not notice the gathering 

D* 


82 


CHAR TER IS. 


darkness of the early winter evening, there is a gentle 
knock at the door, to which she is equally oblivious, — a 
scratch, and a short, low bark, to which, also, she is deaf, — 
then the door is opened gently, pushed open more rudely, 
and Shott rushes in and up to her, and effectually rouses 
her by the touch of his cold nose against her cheek. 

^‘Why, Margaret, all in the dark!” exclaimed the 
cheery voice of her hostess. Then as she drew near and 
saw that the girl was so overcome she could not answer, 
the kind arms were around her and her weary head was 
drawn to rest upon a bosom throbbing with tender sym- 
pathy. 

My poor child, what is the matter?” 

^‘The matter” was not so easily told, still by gentle 
and judicious questioning the sad heart was relieved of 
its burden, so far as could be done by ‘^giving sorrow 
words. ’ ’ 

That evening the doctor and his wife had a long con- 
versation, the result of which was a conspiracy to bring 
about a certain event, to the success of which they devoted 
their most ardent efforts. The next day the doctor paid 
a visit to his ex-patient, as he had been in the habit of 
doing in a friendly way, though it was some weeks since 
he had ceased to do so professionally. Of course Guy 
inquired for Margaret, and made some laughing remark 
about Shott ’s fondness for her, and hoped the dog’s 
frequent visits did not inconvenience the family. 

By no means,” replied the doctor; “ but why cannot 
the master follow the dog’s example?” 

Guy colored up ; he had been a guest in no home since 
his own was made desolate, but he did not notice the 
double entendre of the remark. 

“I think,” continued the doctor, “it is but fair that 
some of my visits should be returned, and I think you 


CHARTER IS. 83 

ought to make some little return to Miss Margaret for all 
she has sacrificed for you.” 

“Sacrificed for me !” exclaimed Guy, starting up. 

“Yes, sacrificed for you,” repeated the doctor. He 
then gave Guy an account of the cloud which had rested 
upon Margaret ever since she had devoted herself to nurs- 
ing him, and of the destitute condition to which she 
would have been reduced had not he, the narrator, felt it 
incumbent upon him to repair as much as possible the 
mischief he had caused. 

Charteris heard all this with amazement and exceeding 
regret, and he at once determined to put aside all selfish 
love of seclusion, and to express his gratitude by word 
and act to his kind nurse. 

“I’ve got the wedge in, Jane,” said the doctor glee- 
fully to his wife that night, rubbing his hands over the 
library-fire. “ I’ve got the wedge in — now to drive it 
home !” 

The next day Guy called upon Mrs. Schroeder and 
Margaret, but saw only the former ; the latter was suffer- 
ing with a severe nervous headache, the result of the 
excited feelings so long repressed, to which she had given 
way two nights before. This visit was followed by an 
invitation to dinner, which Guy accepted, and on which 
occasion he saw Margaret. The ice once broken, he did 
not need much pressing to repeat his visits, and meeting, 
as he did, a refined and cultivated circle of choice spirits 
at the doctor’s, he could not but be pleased and drawn 
out more and more from his sadness and seclusion. He 
noticed Margaret particularly, and saw how she shrank 
from society, — even from that which gathered under the 
roof that sheltered her and in which she was safe, — he saw 
and pitied. 

Nor was the doctor disposed to repent the design 


84 


CHARTERIS. 


formed so hastily, yet the wisdom of which was proved by 
every passing day. For the more he saw of Guy Char- 
teris, the more he admired, respected, and loved him, 
while Margaret was as another daughter to him. Before 
the New Year he and his wife were confirmed match- 
makers, and enjoyed their novel profession as much as 
a child does a new toy. So it came to pass that while 
Robson and Guy were watching the last sad months of 
poor Clare’s life, the husband and father was spending 
day after day at Margaret Thornton’s side. Not that he 
acknowledged that he loved her, or called the attraction 
which drew him to her anything but gratitude and — pity, 
— forgetting to what the last sentiment is said to be akin. 
Nor did he make up his mind to take the last step rashly. 
He knew her well, had studied her character closely, and 
could find in it nothing unworthy of respect. He had 
been drawn into life and its interests once more, and felt 
that the future would look doubly dark if he continued to 
lead his present lonely existence; that he was yet too 
young to do without a home and home interests. Mar- 
garet knew nothing of Charteris Manor and its sad mem- 
ories, — need never know; he could become naturalized 
and use himself to the customs of his adopted country, 
and live and die a citizen of the United States. Actuated 
by these motives, and fully determined to do his duty, and 
make up by kindness for the love he could not give, he 
asked her to be his wife. 

And Margaret ? 

She loved him ; loved him devotedly, deeply, fondly, 
with a passionate tenderness which belied her thirty years, 
and left the feeling she had formerly cherished far, far 
behind. ^'For was he not worthy of all a true woman’s 
heart ? ' But her love did not blind her to the want of it 
on his part, and this clear-sightedness made her hesitate. 


CHAR TER IS. 


85 

The letter in which he asked her to be his wife — for he 
wrote, he could not bring himself to speak the words a 
second time — was manly and tender, and would have 
satisfied any ordinary woman, but not Margaret Thornton. 
She read it over once, twice, then laid it down upon the 
table and rested her head upon the page, while she medi- 
tated long and deeply. Her heart throbbed at the thought 
of belonging to him, of giving herself into his keeping 
for all time, of never being separated, of the joy that all 
this would bring her ; then she asked herself would this 
satisfy her ? Did not her passionate love crave something 
else beside — some faint return of love ? and would it not 
be a living death to live without it ? Two days passed 
before she could frame an answer, and this delay rendered 
Charteris impatient, — he, man-like, thinking that as he 
had made up his mind on the subject, she should be 
equally prompt. The second note, like the first, lacked 
the one thing which, shown ever so faintly, would have 
scattered her hesitancy to the winds. 

do not see why you should not return a favorable 
answer,” said Mrs. Schroeder, to whom Margaret had in 
her perplexity turned, deeming it due, under the circum- 
stances, that her kind friend should be made aware of all 
that related to her. ‘'It is a match few would refuse.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Schroeder,” replied Margaret, “Mr. 
Charteris does me the honor of asking me to be his wife, 
but he does not love me.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed her friend; “what silly notion 
is that ?’ ’ 

“ It is no silly notion, believe me; it is a fact of which 
I am most painfully assured.” 

“ Margaret Thornton, can you talk such nonsense in 
the face of two such letters as these?” 


“ Indeed it is no nonsense- 
8 


86 


CHARTER IS. 


And indeed it is. No, my dear, don’t let any such 
silly idea take root in your mind. Why, you don’t know 
what a disappointment your refusal would be to us all. So 
write the little word ‘yes,’ and make the poor man happy 
and yourself, too.” So saying, the kind lady took her 
departure, little dreaming of the sting she had left behind 
her. 

“Disappointment to us!” The words rang in Mar- 
garet’s ears, and reminded her of her real situation, which 
the kindness of her friends had lately caused her to forget 
sometimes, and the sensitive nature was alarmed. Better 
anything than that, — for where else could she go ? what 
could she do? Her resolution was taken at once, and 
Guy Charteris’s offer was accepted. 

They were married on the morning of the 25th of May, 
1849. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

Charteris wrote to Mr. Upham announcing his mar- 
riage, and also his intention of making his home in the 
United States and renouncing England. To the first 
item in this letter the lawyer wrote a congratulatory ' 
answer, as in duty bound, but remonstrated with him 
earnestly against his decision to give up his native country. 
He represented to him that Charteris sadly needed his 
presence, and that, having taken upon himself new ties, he 
had entailed upon himself new responsibilities, which he 
had no right to ignore ; nor ought he forget the claims of 
those who might come after him. So urgently did he 
write that Guy was moved by his earnestness, and an- 
swered saying that, in view of the possible responsibilities. 


CHAR TER IS. 87 

his decision was not to be considered final, — that events 
might occur which would cause him to revoke it. 

Margaret had nothing to complain of in her husband 
that the world could see, and the good doctor and his 
wife congratulated themselves upon the success of their 
plan. In their eyes she was a loving and beloved wife, 
with every prospect of a happy life before her. No one 
but Margaret could see that there was a chamber in her 
husband’s heart locked, barred, and bolted against her, 
to which she saw no hope of finding the Open sesame,” 
and that chamber was the very core, — the centre, — upon 
which every truly happy wife must sit enthroned. But 
she had married him knowing this, and she submitted to 
her lot patiently, withholding none of the love she had 
now a right to show, but encompassing him, as it were, 
with it, seeing him only through the light of it. She had 
no secrets from him. Before she married him she told 
him of her early love and sorrow. There was not a thought 
of her heart that she kept from him, except one, and that 
was the knowledge of his want of love for her. He had 
no idea that she missed anything in him, or craved more 
than he was willing to give. So passed the first eighteen 
months of their marriage. 

Mr. Upham repeatedly wrote to Guy urging him to 
return to England, and finally the death of his agent at 
Charteris induced him to decide upon it. Even now he 
did not tell Margaret all; he represented to her the 
necessity for his going to England, and offered if she 
dreaded the voyage to leave her and return after he had 
attended to the most pressing business. She knew that 
he had property in England, and that he was a gentleman 
by birth and education ; but of Charteris Manor and its 
glories she was totally ignorant. But two things at length 
decided him to return to his long-neglected home, and 


88 


CHARTER IS. 


to resume his duties to his property, and the old English 
life : one was his anxiety that his child, if it proved a son, 
should be born beneath his own native skies — and the other 
was the reading of the sudden death of the young Earl of 
Straithness, by a fall from his horse. 

We have seen his return duly announced. 


CHAPTER IX. 

On his arrival in England, Robson made inquiries as to 
whether Sir Gilbert Forrester was at Brandon Towers, or 
at his wife’s estate of Stoke-Leighton, in Staffordshire. 
Finding he was at the latter place, he wrote, requesting 
Sir Gilbert to come immediately to London, or he would 
visit Staffordshire, as he was most anxious to see him. 
He added in a postscript that he was alone. 

It was a pity he could not have seen Sir Gilbert’s face 
as he read the postscript. Had he done so he would have 
been forewarned. 

Fatigued by his sudden and hurried journey, and affected 
doubtless by the anxious state of mind in which he had 
passed the last few days, Robson found himself really sick 
on his arrival, and while waiting for the answer to his 
letter. 

It came by telegraph. Sir Gilbert would be in town 
in two days. When he came he found Robson pros- 
trated by a nervous fever, and he remained with him 
three days. There was nothing in his manner to alarm 
Robson ; he seemed much more quiet and self-restrained 
than in former years. But Robson did not get any better 


CHARTERIS, 


89 

in the three days ; in fact, before the second was passed he 
began to have very strange feelings and to be seriously 
uneasy ; by the evening of the third day he was so much 
worse that he knew, when too late, that his food or medi- 
cine had been tampered with. The night of the third 
day his fever had augmented so much that he became un- 
conscious of his surroundings. When he came to him- 
self he was in a strange room, with a strange nurse in 
attendance. It did not require a long time to enable him 
to discover that he was the inmate of a private lunatic 
asylum. 

When he realized this appalling fact, Robson’s feel- 
ings were a mixture of despair and rage, impossible to 
describe. His first thought was for Guy, and he felt 
thankful the boy was in safe and kind hands ; but he was 
anxious, knowing the miserly penuriousness of Gilbert 
Forrester, lest the allowance made him should be with- 
drawn. Fortunately, he had insisted upon a large sum at 
first, which was nearly three times more than was suffi- 
cient for their modest wants ; and the surplus, having been 
invested carefully, had by this time amounted to a com- 
fortable sum of itself. 

Before leaving Guy, Robson had informed Father 
Anselmo of as much of the boy’s history as he deemed 
prudent, and had also left with him a sealed packet to be 
delivered to Guy on his twenty-first birthday. He had 
told the monk, also, how and where the surplus money 
was invested, the sum of, and how the regular allowance 
was received. So that, in case of anything happening to 
him, — though the reality of what did happen was far ]^om 
his thoughts, — all would go well for his charge. 

He knew Father Anselmo would not be a faithless 
guardian, and that Guy’s education and training were in 
good hands ; still at times he felt heart-sick with anxiety. 

8 * 


90 


CHARTER IS, 


As soon as he was well enough to leave his room, he set 
about trying to discover a way to escape. To protest 
against his imprisonment, and assert his sanity, would be, 
he knew, only a waste of breath, and he did not attempt it. 

The nurses were kind, and so was the physician who had 
the direction of the institution. The latter Robson soon 
found had been duped by Sir Gilbert, and really believed 
him to be the monomaniac he had been represented. He 
shrank from and avoided as much as possible the com- 
pany of those harmless inmates who, like himself, were 
allowed the freedom of the house and grounds, and, by 
showing pleasure in the doctor’s society, seeking it when 
he could, and conversing on various and interesting sub- 
jects, endeavored to remove the wrong impression he had 
received. After more than a year’s imprisonment he 
began to hope he was succeeding, when the physician died 
suddenly, and, his successor being a far different character 
and a total stranger, Robson’s courage failed and he grew 
dejected and morbid. 

He now knew there was no chance of escape, except 
through the luck of an accident, and for long, long weary 
years he waited and watched. 


\ 





BOOK THIRD. 


CHAPTER I. 

Charteris met with a warm welcome from Mr. Upham, 
upon whom he still imposed silence as to his reappearance, 
and with whose family he left Margaret, while he went 
down to Devonshire to prepare for her residence there. 
He shrank from the task, but it had to be done, and the 
sooner the better. 

Who can describe, what words can do justice to, the 
agony with which he gazed upon the familiar scene? So 
changed, and yet the same ! Here was the terrace where 
she had paced at his side so often in fond and loving 
talk ; there Guy, escaping from the nurse, had, with a 
shout of baby glee, rushed to meet him; another place 
had been Clare’s flower-garden, and some plants, set 
there by her hands, had grown and flourished in all the 
years, and seemed to be holding out their arms to him 
and calling for her; and the house ! Was there a room 
or a hall, a nook or corner, that her presence had not 
sanctified? For the time Margaret was well-nigh for- 
gotten. 

He had Clare’s morning-room, where everything lay as 
he had left it, dismantled, and made it a receptacle for all 
her belongings to the veriest trifle, and then closed it up, 

91 


92 


CHARTER IS. 


intending never to open it again. Then he had the house 
thoroughly renovated and refurnished, with much kindly 
thought for Margaret’s fancies and her comfort. The 
boat-house had been removed entirely, and all traces of 
its ever having been there also, and he had ordered the 
planting of a thick hedge along the shore, which shut out 
the sight of the river. These changes had been made 
years before, when he first left the country, consequently 
the hedge was thick' now. The woods on the other side 
were thicker than ever, and the servants told him that Sir 
Gilbert had never been to Brandon since he left Charteris. 
Having arranged things to his satisfaction, Guy returned 
to London ; there he had much to do before he could 
take possession of his Scottish earldom. It was the first 
time he had been absent from Margaret since his marriage, 
and he was surprised at the pleasure the sight of her gave 
him, and the satisfaction he felt at having some one to 
come home to. As for poor Margaret, the very intensity 
of her delight made her shy ; the fear of annoying him 
by any display of feeling caused her to repress hers, 
and to a common observer the eagerness was all on his 
side. 

Of course, it being September, all the world was out of 
town, and when Guy paid a visit to his old club he ex- 
pected to meet no one. The porter eyed him curiously 
as he passed through the vestibule, but as there had been 
several new members elected lately, with whose persons 
he was not familiar, and as Guy seemed perfectly at home, 
he let him pass unchallenged. As he entered the smoking- 
room, so little changed in the years he had been away, a 
strange feeling came over him, his head swam, and he 
sank into a chair and made some inarticulate sound, which 
attracted the attention of a gentleman sitting near, who, 
in turning round, started up, looked closely at Guy, now 


CHAR TER IS. 


93 


ghastly pale, and took a step nearer, when Shott, who 
had followed closely at his master’s heels, sprang up and 
snarled at him. It was Gilbert Forrester. 

“Guy — Guy Charteris, are you living man or spirit? 
speak!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert. 

His voice roused Guy, who looked up and smiled sadly 
but scornfully. 

“Yes,” said he, “it is I, Forrester; a little longer and 
the two years had quite expired !” 

“You have a good memory, Charteris; — I — had — for- 
gotten.” 

“But I could not forget. Upham tells me that you 
married — soon — soon ’ ’ 

“ Yes, and am now a widower. My only child, a little 
girl of two years old, is at Stoke-Leighton with her grand- 
father. But you? how is it with you, Guy?” 

Recovering from his surprise. Sir Gilbert Forrester’s 
quick mind had taken in all the probabilities of the situ- 
ation, and his craft and cunning were on the alert to seize 
any advantage. It must be his role now to be on friendly 
terms with Charteris. 

Before his question was answered, several other old 
members crowded round, eager to welcome the dead-alive 
back to his old haunts, and Guy had much to do answer- 
ing questions and receiving information. The next two 
hours were a heavy ordeal for him, and he was glad when 
it was over, and *he could make his escape. Glad, too, 
that he was to start for Scotland so soon, and so avoid 
much more of it. 

The next day the notice appeared in the Times which 
George Robson was to read two months later, with what 
result we have seen. 

As yet Guy had said no word to Margaret. When he 
went down to Charteris he had told her why he went, — 


94 


CHARTER IS. 


to arrange matters for her reception at his own house. 
But it might have been a log hut for all she knew to the 
contrary. Mr. Upham had informed his wife and daughter 
of Guy’s desire to keep her in ignorance of his rank, and 
so they never alluded to it, although many a time they 
were on the verge of revealing the secret. As soon as the 
announcement was made in the TimeSy Guy decided to 
tell his wife, as any further secrecy would be almost im- 
possible, and was unnecessary. Indeed, he felt she had 
a right to be angry at his long silence. 

“My dear Margaret,” said he, “I must go down into 
Scotland before we get settled in Devonshire. Do you 
think you can bear the journey, or shall I leave you again 
with our kind friends?” 

“I would prefer going with you, Mr. Charteris,” she 
replied, “unless it is best I should not.” 

“That is just as you please; if you have recovered 
sufficiently from the sea voyage, there is no objection to 
your going.” 

If he would only say he wanted her to go, — that he 
missed her society, — how her sad heart would have been 
lightened ! 

' “ Then I will go.” 

She had never called him “Guy,” and he had never 
seemed to notice the omission. 

“You must have a maid to attend upon you, and we 
must start day after to-morrow.” 

“ A maid, Mr. Charteris ! why, I never have needed one 
before.” 

“ No ; in the United States the customs of society are 
very different. We are in England now, and you know 
the old adage about Rome and the Romans. A maid is a 
necessary appendage to every lady, much more to the wife 
of an earl.” 


CHAR TER IS. 


95 

An earl? Are you — am I — what do you mean, Mr. 
Charteris ?” 

I mean this, Margaret, and should have told you all 
long ago. You took me, my dear wife, very much upon 
trust, for. even kind Dr. Schroeder knew nothing of my 
antecedents, and, believe me, I have not been oblivious 
of your generous confidence.” 

“ No, no — I married a gentleman — what more?” 

‘‘My dear, it might have turned out that you had 
married the greatest rascal that walks unhung ; but it so 
happens that you married — me. You were kind enough 
to say just now what you thought me, and as the descrip- 
tion is very flattering and I never contradict a lady, we 
will let it pass.” 

He smiled brightly at her from the rug where he had 
been standing, and then, seeing her turn pale, hastened 
over to the sofa and took a seat beside her. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Margaret. I ought to have told 
you all this earlier ; but at first, I never — I thought to 
make my home in the States — never to see England again, 
and as you were satisfied to take me for better or worse, 
as I was, it did not seem worth while to tell you more. 
You married, dear, a gentleman — for I hope I will never 
prove myself anything else — of large landed property in 
Devonshire — Charteris Manor having been in his family 
since the times of Henry VII., — who happened to have a 
distant cousin in Scotland, the Earl of Straithness ; this 
young man, whom I never saw, married last February on 
his twenty-fourth birthday, and doubtless thought the 
future 'promised all that earth could give of happiness. 
Just before we sailed for England, I saw the account of an 
impromptu steeple-chase, gotten up at Straithness by the 
young earl and his friends. The horse my poor cousin 
rode missed his hedge, and, falling, injured his rider so 


CHAR TER IS. 


96 

much that he died in a few hours, and the shock to his 
young wife was so great that she was brought to death’s 
door, her baby born prematurely, and so all her hopes 
destroyed at once.” His voice trembled over the last 
words, the memory of his own past sorrow surged over 
him. 

‘^Poor thing!” exclaimed Margaret. 

** Indeed, it is a sad case, Margaret.” 

‘‘Can we not go to her?” 

“ She is still at Straithness, as yet not recovered. It is 
for this reason that I am anxious to go down there, that 
she may be fully satisfied to remain at the castle as long 
as she wishes to — and — I thought — you might comfort 
her. She is an only child, her mother dead, and she is 
without relations of her own sex to be near her in her 
trouble.” 

“ Let us go at once, Mr. — my lord 1” replied Margaret. 

“ Lady Straithness must ask her kind friend, Mrs Up- 
ham, to assist her in the choice of a maid,” he replied, 
smiling at her hesitancy, yet never suggesting the little 
word that would have shown so much. 

They did not remain long in Scotland: only long 
enough for Margaret to learn to feel a deep interest in the 
young widowed countess, and to enable Charteris to make 
all necessary business arrangements. 


CHAR TER IS. 


97 


CHAPTER 11. 

On their return from the north, Guy and his wife re- 
mained only one night in London, and then journeyed 
down to the Manor. 

Margaret would have been more than human had she 
been indifferent to the splendors of her future home. 
Not even the earl’s castle up there in Scotland surpassed 
the more humbly-titled Manor-house ; and as they alighted 
at the entrance, and her husband stood upon the steps to 
receive her, she felt for a moment a thrill of real delight 
as she looked around. 

^‘Welcome to your husband’s home, Margaret,” said 
Guy. 

His voice was tenderer than it had ever been before, 
and she looked up to see if she could read in his eyes the 
love she prayed and longed for — that she hoped she might 
find some day. For she found when too late that she 
had assigned herself too heavy a task, one which was 
breaking her heart. Loving her husband as she did, it 
was an unendurable torment to find day by day it was 
too true that he did not care for her and never had. Still, 
as he was her husband, she could not help hoping that 
one day he would need her love, and so grow to love her. 
So she looked up at him hoping to see what she longed 
for in his eyes. But no ; there was no change, and the 
tremor in his voice was caused, doubtless, by the memory 
of Clare, as^she had last blessed her husband’s vision, 
standing on those very steps. She made no answer to his 

E 9 


CHARTER IS. 


98 

greeting, save a simple ‘‘thank you,” and passed into the 
hall where the servants were assembled to welcome the 
master and his new wife. She felt very desolate as she 
looked around at the strange faces, but made an effort and 
had a kind word for the old butler, Benson, and Mrs. 
Childs, the housekeeper. 

“My lady is fatigued, Mrs. Childs; will you see her to 
her room?” said Guy, when this ceremony was over, 
seeing Margaret looked pale and weary. 

“ Certainly, my lord ; will my lady please to follow 
me?” 

Guy gave Margaret his arm to the foot of the stairs, 
and then said, — 

“ Do not make an effort to dress to-night, Margaret ; 
you had better rest — ” 

His manner was kind, but that was all; he turned 
away to speak to Benson. 

Mrs. Childs showed Margaret into her chamber, and, 
pushing open a door, told her her dressing-room was here, 
then opening another door, revealing a small apartment, 
said. “ This is my lord’s dressing-room, and this” — going 
through it and opening a door opposite to the one she 
had entered — “ is my lord’s chamber ; and now, my lady, 
let me help you off with your bonnet, and I will send you 
up a cup of tea and a biscuit.” 

Margaret sank down in a chair and let the kind old 
woman remove her wrappings, almost unconscious of what 
she was doing. 

The tea was’ sent up, but she could not touch it. Nor 
did she have any appetite for the dinner, which perhaps 
she might have tasted, had she known that Guy selected 
himself what he thought she would most fancy. When 
the servant came up to remove the dishes, she found they 
had not been touched. 


CHARTERIS. 


99 


Poor Margaret passed a miserable evening, for Guy, 
really supposing she had taken his advice and retired, did 
not disturb her, and she finally, after her maid left her, 
sobbed herself to sleep. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was December when they settled down at Charteris, 
and the weeks passed till Christmas, rapidly, so occupied 
was Margaret in investigating the ^‘ins and outs” of her 
new home; receiving and returning the visits of the 
neighboring gentry. 

Besides that, she had her hands full of employment, in 
the fashioning of dainty garments, into whose every fold 
such hopes were nestling! She could not forego the 
pleasure of doing much of the work herself, and as she 
thought of the future her heart grew almost light in 
anticipation of the untold happiness that might soon be 
hers. Would not the baby open the father’s heart to the 
mother ? 

Guy was most of the time with her, only occasionally 
running up to London on business. As the holy season 
drew near, she arranged to prepare a feast for the tenantry, 
and took great interest in it. Her principal coadjutors 
were Mrs. Halsted, the rector’s wife, who lived in the 
beautiful rectory just beyond the park gates, and little 
Mrs. Bonnycastle, the young wife of the physician who 
lived in the village of Charteris, and attended to the 
physical health of the neighborhood. 

The three ladies worked together for the people s 


lOO 


CHARTERIS. 


pleasure, and the result was a grand Christmas festival, 
equal to those of the olden time in that part of the 
country. Oxen roasted whole, and holly-boughs, and 
plum-pudding, and all the rest of it. After Christmas, 
the young widowed countess. Lady Julia Seton, paid her 
a visit. Then in February Parliament met, and Guy was 
obliged to go up to town to take his seat in the House of 
Peers. It was then that Margaret felt her loneliness, 
isolated from all society save the occasional visits of the 
rector’s and the doctor’s wives. It was then that she felt 
the pressing of her great sadness, till sometimes her heart 
seemed breaking. 

She would wander about the house at times with such 
an aching soreness that she thought she could bear it no 
longer ; at others she would pace her chamber floor, and 
hold out her arms and speak the name to herself that no 
one ever heard her utter, ‘‘Guy! Guy I” with desperate 
yearning. “If h e did but love m e!” was her heart-moan, 
“If he did but love me !’* Xnd not even the fond an- 
ticipations of mother-joy could still that cry, “If he did 
but love me !” 

If he had but left some memento of Clare around, — 
her portrait, — anything, — so she could hold communion 
as it were with the dead wife, and form some imagination 
of her as she was ! if he would only speak of her some- 
times ! Margaret was not of a jealous disposition, and had 
Guy opened his heart to her of his grief for Clare, he 
would have found a sweet consolation in her sympathy. 
His silence did not deceive her nor lead her to think he 
had forgotten her predecessor. If he had only told her 
all, instead of leaving her to learn full particulars from 
the kindly old housekeeper and Benson. And that locked- 
up room ! — the Bluebeard chamber, as Margaret might 
have styled it had she put her thoughts into words. How 


CHARTER IS. 


lOI 


that weighed on her mind ! She was becoming terribly 
morbid, and really dreaded being left alone much longer 
with only old Shott for her daily companion. At last she 
wrote to Charteris, requesting permission to invite her 
kind old friends, Dr. Schroeder and his wife, to pay her 
the visit they had promised when she left them. The 
doctor had determined he would give up practice in a 
year, and if he had kept his resolution, as, of course, he 
had, there would be nothing to prevent their accepting 
the invitation. 

To this letter Guy replied immediately, telling her to 
write when she pleased, — that he had also written second- 
ing her invitation. Then he suggested that he should 
send Dennis down to bring her up to the city, if she felt 
she could take the journey. He regretted that his duties 
prevented him from coming himself. 

Margaret gladly wrote the letter, but declined the trip 
to London in her present state of health ; and now the 
anticipation of a favorable answer to her invitation was 
something to look forward to. It came, almost sooner 
than she had expected, and informed her that her old 
friends were just about to sail for Europe, intending to 
visit Germany, when her letter reached them. They, of 
course, had intended looking in upon her on their return 
to New York, but if she wanted them then they would go 
to her at once. 

Which they did ; and in showing them the beauties of 
the neighborhood, and the delights of her lovely home, 
Margaret for a time forgot her sadness. But not for long ; 
as the hour of her trial approached she grew almost frantic. 
Guy ran down for a few days at the Easter recess, but that 
was the only visit he paid. 

Greatness was being thrust upon Guy ; his ambition 
had never been aroused, he had hardly been conscious of 

9 * 


102 


CHARTER IS. 


his own powers until forced to show them. A speech 
made most unexpectedly by him on one occasion had 
drawn the attention of the government to him, and he 
was selected to undertake a delicate mission to one of 
the Continental courts; the necessity was so great and 
urgent that he had no time to run down to Charteris 
to see Margaret, and he was absent from England two 
weeks. 

His letters were full of his new interests; not that he 
wrote elatedly at the royal patronage, — he was too self- 
poised and self-respecting for that, — but he wrote as a 
man would who suddenly felt new powers stirred within 
him, at the same time that the opportunity for exercising 
them was opened. 

Margaret, while she felt keenly the negligence of her 
claims, could not but have a certain proiid satisfaction in 
the position he had a.chieved so suddenly. But kindly 
Mrs. Schroeder saw more than Margaret dreamed she did; 
she remembered, too, that conversation they had had 
when Margaret was hesitating to accept Guy’s offer ; and 
she began to fear maybe she and her husband had not 
done such a kindly thing by her after all, for she was too 
true a woman not to know that all the luxuriance of 
wealth, all the grandeur of the countess’s coronet, could 
not make up to one like Margaret for love ; and love, she 
began to fear, was wanting on Guy Charteris’ s part. She 
had been blind at first, but she was keen-eyed enough 
now ; and without a word being spoken to her of com- 
plaint or repining she arrived at a pretty correct idea of 
the true state of the case. And this idea she communi- 
cated to her husband one evening, but the doctor pooh- 
poohed it with all a man’s natural scorn of a woman’s 
proneness to jump to a conclusion. ‘‘Margaret was fanci- 
ful ; all women were at such times.” “Well, if Margaret 


CHAR TER IS. 

had said nothing to her, she had the less right to form so 
erroneous an opinion.” 

And so the good man dismissed the thought, and 
started for his daily walk. 


CHAPTER IV. 

One night, sleep having refused to visit her pillow, 
Margaret rose, and throwing a dressing-gown around her, 
paced — as was her custom when wakeful or nervous — the 
floor for nearly an hour; then she lighted her candle, and 
opened a door on the further side of her room from Guy’s 
apartment. Raising the light above her head, she glanced 
around ; everything was ready ; the cradle swung on its 
supports, hung round with dainty lace, the silken cover- 
let turned down, the little pillow fresh and soft. A 
rocking-chair was near, and on a table stood a baby’s 
basket ; its furnishing had been the work of kindly little 
Mrs. Bonnycastle, but the silken coverlet had been the 
present of the rector’s wife. Margaret smiled as she stood 
for a moment looking down into the empty cradle, almost 
fancying she could see the little form she hoped was soon 
to occupy it; she passed her hand lovingly over the basket, 
and then turned to the bureau and opened the top drawer. 
There lay the little garments ready to her hand ; how she 
had worked over them, fashioning each tiny piece with 
such careful finish. She knelt down and handled them 
one by one, and as she did so she thought of Clare, and 
the work she evidently had last been employed on (as the 
housekeeper had told her), and all the sweet hopes and 
happiness that had then been so cruelly blasted. And as 


104 


CHARTER IS. 


she thought of the lost wife, her mind naturally turned to 
the husband , — her husband now , — and bowing herself to 
the very ground, she wrung her hands together and 
moaned, ‘‘Oh, will he love me afterwards, — will he love 
me ! Oh, Guy, Guy !” 

How long she lay there she hardly knew, but when she 
rose she felt she must make one appeal, she must do some- 
thing to bring about a change ! She sat down to her 
writing-table and began a letter to Guy. The great clock 
on the stairs rang out the hour, yet Margaret’s pen moved 
on ; her head throbbed, but she was unconscious of its 
achings. With all the eloquence of her loving, sorrow- 
stirred heart she plead for what was her right and what 
she found was also her life. 

“When you hold my baby — our baby — in your arms, 
will you refuse me a little of your love ? Guy ! Guy ! I 
have never dared to call you by that name, save in my 
secret heart or in the solitude of my own room ; but I 
must write it here. Guy, my darling, my love, my idol, 
I cannot live shut out from your heart ! If I survive my 
hour of trial, will you not try to love me? Clare will not 
mind it, — could she speak to you, she would tell you so. 
On ray knees, oh, my l^usband, I beg that precious boon !” 

When she felt she could say no more, that language 
was exhausted, then, and not till then, did she become 
conscious of how physically exhausted she was also. She 
closed her blotting-book, and, leaving it in her open desk, 
crept back to bed shivering from head to foot. 

It was well for Margaret that she had her old friends 
with her, for it taxed the united skill of both doctors to 
save her life and that of her baby, and afterwards she lay 
long hours unconscious, and when she awoke it was in the 
ravings of fever. Guy was telegraphed for and came in- 
stantly, letting his new public duties fall before this call. 


CHARTER IS, 


105 

When he stood at the bedside she did not know him ; 
but his heart was wrung by her pitiful cry of “Guy! 
Guy !“ and mutterings about “ Clare — and that room” — 
“ locked up — all locked up — and his heart, too — he never 
loved me I” Then “ Guy I Guy 1 he can’t hear me, so I 
can speak the precious name — Guy ! But he won’t come, 
he is too busy — state cares; he’ll be a great man some 
day 1 oh, yes, I know — all — all about it — a great man, and 
my baby’s father — did you say it was a boy ? — a boy ! oh, 
he’ll be so proud — and then — maybe he’ll love me — do 
you think he will?” She turned pleadingly to Mrs. 
Schroeder, who held her hand, while the tears ran down 
her face. 

Guy stood at the foot of the bed and looked down 
at his wife with a face like marble, and with folded 
arms, but the hands were clinched until the nails drew 
blood from the palms. At last he turned to the doctor 
and said, — 

“ For God’s sake give her something to make her sleep, 
or this will kill me !” 

And Dr. Schroeder raised the poor head from the pillow 
and held the soothing draught to her lips. She drank it, 
but began to talk again, until gradually the medicine had 
its way and she grew calmer, and at last slept. 

Guy never stirred until the poor eyes closed ; he felt 
shocked beyond measure, and could not understand how 
the secret he had thought locked away so carefully in his 
own breast had been found out by her from whom he was 
most anxious to keep it I He examined his conduct care- 
fully, and could not fix upon any point in which he had 
been remiss; the world knew him for a most devoted 
husband — in what had he failed ? And as he looked down 
upon the sad, sweet face, an all-powerful pity surged up 
into his heart ; the icy bonds were broken, and he knew 

E* 


io6 


CHAJ^TERIS. 


he loved her now ; he grasped the doctor’s hand — Save 
her, Doctor Schroeder — save her ; she must live, or life is 
nothing more to me !” Then motioning to Mrs. Schroeder 
to follow him, he left the room. 

But when they were alone together, he did not speak 
— only grasped her hand and wrung it ; then, seeing the 
deep sadness and pity in her eyes, he fell on his knees be- 
side her, buried his face on her shoulder, and sobbed aloud. 

She soothed him as if he had been a child, and then, as 
he grew calmer, they had a long talk and explanation, 
and at the end of it she remembered that Guy had not 
seen his son yet, — the little Viscount Rochdale, the heir 
of his house and hopes. 

The baby was brought and placed in his father’s arms, 
and, bowing his head over the tiny hands, he vowed to 
cherish the mother so tenderly that no pang of sorrow 
should ever cause her heart to beat unhappily again, if he 
could help it. 

Margaret continued for several days to talk wildly and 
to cry for Guy. He was seldom from her bedside, but she 
never recognized him. One day while she was quiet 
under the influence of the medicine. Dr. Schroeder' had 
occasion for a slip of paper. Guy had retired to his own 
room, and the doctor, seeing Margaret’s blotting-boo 
in the desk, opened it, to find what he wanted. The 
letter was there just as she had finished it ; without read- 
ing more than the two or three words at the beginning, 
which revealed to him the nature of the writing, he took 
up the book, carried it into the adjoining room, and laid 
it open where it would first greet her husband’s eyes 
when he should awake. 

When he read the letter, Guy’s soul was moved to its 
very depths with pity, love, and admiration. He felt he 
had never known his wife before. How long he had 


CHARTER IS. 


•107 


ignored the nobleness of the heart beating beside him ! 
He had imagined that kindly courtesy and gentle con- 
sideration for all physical needs and comforts were all 
that he need bestow upon the woman he had made his 
wife out of a feeling of pity and gratitude — giving no 
thought to the needs of the soul he had also in his keep- 
ing — to the mental life which he was blasting every day. 

At last the crisis came ; the house was silent as the grave, 
the servants moved about on tip-toe and spoke in whis- 
pers ; the baby slept, and the double doors of the nursery 
were closed to prevent its feeble cry, if it should cry, 
from reaching the sick-chamber. Mrs. Schroeder and 
Mrs. Halsted sat in the former lady’s room with Mrs. 
Bonnycastle, not speaking, but inwardly praying that life 
might be spared ; Drs. Schroeder and Bonnycastle sat, 
scarcely breathing, in Guy’s dressing-room, with the 
door leading into Margaret’s ajar ; Guy himself knelt by 
the bedside and held her hand in his, his eyes fixed upon 
her face, while his heart rose, as it had never risen before, 
in prayer, begging for that precious life. 

At last the fingers moved in his grasp, the head was 
turned slightly on the pillow, the large soft eyes opened 
upon the world once more with reason in their glance. 
They rested on her husband’s face. 

“ Guy !” The feeble arms made a motion as if to raise 
themselves. He took them and laid them round his neck. 

“Margaret! My pearl without price!” He bent his 
head and kissed her lips and eyes, and folded her in a 
close embrace. She needed no - words then to tell her 
that her sorrows were over. 

The two doctors closed the door gently, then by a 
common impulse turned and clasped each other’s hands. 
When they sought their wives, their faces told the joyful 
tidings, albeit the eyes of both were moist. 


io8 


CHARTER IS. 


CHAPTER V. 

Great were the rejoicings over the birth of the heir, 
and Margaret often smiled as she glanced at the tiny mite 
they were making such a fuss about; smiled, for she could, 
smile now, aye, laugh, too, such a rippling, joyous laugh 
as Guy had never heard from her lips before. And Guy 
was very proud of his baby, yet as he held it in his arms 
a yearning soreness would steal over his heart and dim his 
eye ; the memory of his lost Guy, his first-born, was ever 
present to him. 

Of course the baby must be named, and one evening 
they (for the Schroeders did not leave until Margaret’s 
health was fully re-established) were discussing the im- 
portant question. Of course the lost Guy could not be 
supplanted ; his name was sacred. Charteris suggested 
Hermann Schroeder, at which the doctor clapped both 
hands over his ears. Then Mrs. Schroeder brought forward 
the claims of Margaret’s father to be considered. 

It shall be Henry Thornton, of course, shall it not. 
Pearl?” said Guy, turning to Margaret, who was propped 
up with pillows upon a lounge. 

A faint color rose to the pale cheek at the pet name, 
which came, in time, to be the one he always called her 
by, but Guy saw a faint, hesitating dissent on her face, and 
he went over and knelt at her side. 

“Well,” he asked, laying his hands on hers, “shall it 
be Henry Thornton?” 

She drew him closer and whispered, — 


CHAR TER IS. 


109 

** Call him Theodore, Guy, for he was a precious gift 
of God to me.” 

And the little Lord Rochdale, Theodore Hermann 
Charteris, had for his sponsors Dr. Bonnycastle and wife, 
Mrs. Halsted and the rector. 

It was June when Margaret received her ‘‘gift of God,” 
and as soon as she was able to travel they went up to 
Straithness for the hot months of July and August. Dr. 
and Mrs. Schroeder spent a week or two in Scotland, 
and then carried out their original plan of going over to 
Germany. But Margaret had no time to feel lonely or to 
miss them ; the days seemed to pass in one unbroken 
course of enjoyment. The neighborhood was unusually 
gay, and she was constantly receiving or paying visits. 
Then, too, the advent of the young heir must be honored 
by a f&te, at which his health was drank by gentle and 
simple. And Margaret was perfectly happy ; no cloud 
dimmed the horizon of her future. Guy was as devoted 
and tender as any heart could wish, seeming never to care 
to be away from her side. Happiness is a great beautifier, 
and Margaret showed its effects on her recovery. She 
had always been called a “sweet-looking girl,” without 
any peculiar claims to beauty; her features were not 
regular nor striking, but the sadness of her dark eyes — a 
look they had long worn — and the white, even teeth re- 
deemed her face from homeliness. Now she bloomed out 
into a stately style that no one had anticipated. She was 
in the full maturity of her years, and what she had lost of 
the freshness of youth, heart-felt happiness more than sup- 
plied. Guy had no reason to fear that she would not 
hold her own with England’s fairest daughters. 


10 


no 


CHARTER IS. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Guy was too happy to remember old scores against Sir 
Gilbert Forrester ; he reasoned to himself that the man 
was not to blame in claiming what he thought was rightly 
his own, although he had been very much in a hurry to 
do so, and had behaved in an ungentlemanly manner 
under his disappointment. Therefore Sir Gilbert and his 
little girl were among the few guests invited to make a 
visit to Straithness. 

This invitation was a great relief to Forrester, who had 
been most anxious to be on friendly terms with Clare’s 
husband ; but he did not make a favorable impression 
upon Margaret, who, however, felt a great interest in 
little Rose, and soon learned to love the three-year-old 
girl very fondly. But Gilbert she could not like, and fold 
Guy so. 

“ Poor Forrester is unfortunate with some women, though 
they say his wife loved him devotedly,” replied Guy. 

“She may have done so at first, Guy, while he was 
acting a part for his own purposes, but I feel confident 
slie did not when she learned to know him as a woman 
must know her husband. She was an heiress, was she 
not?” 

“Yes; but her father still lives. Little Rose will be 
one of the richest young ladies in the three kingdoms, if 
not the richest.” 

“Then I hope either her grandfather will live till she 
is married, or else fix things so that her father can have no 
control over her fortune !” exclaimed Margaret. 


CHARTER IS. 


Ill 


The old general is pretty ’cute, as we used to say in 
Yankeedom, and has, as they say farther West, cut his 
wisdom-teeth. But what has induced you to take such an 
aversion to the poor man. Pearl?” 

can’t give you a reason, dear, that would seem 
satisfactory to your masculine mind; but I can’t abide 
him. I shudder whenever he comes near the baby, and 
I sicken when I see the peculiar expression his face wears 
when he sees you caressing me or the boy.” 

^‘You are fanciful, Margo, still it is a strange coinci- 
dence. Do you know that Clare had the same feelings 
towards him? and that very last evening — the last I — you 
know, dear — she expressed herself in even stronger terms 
than you have done.” 

‘‘ Trust a woman’s instinct, dearest; it is sometimes far 
truer than all your boasted reasonings,” said Margaret. 
^‘That Clare had the same aversion, and he her blood 
relation, shows that there is something. He is no friend 
of yours, and some day, perhaps, you will find it out.” 

‘‘I can’t see now how he can injure me. Pearl, so I 
fear you will prove a false prophet, as you are rather an 
oracular one with your * instincts’ and ^perhaps.’ ” 

^‘Nous verrons, mon ami,” replied Margaret; ^‘but a 
truce to a disagreeable subject. God grant he may not!” 

Forrester felt that Margaret distrusted him, and he did 
not force himself upon her ; but he was glad to see her 
fondness for little Rose, and a project formed in his mind 
rather prematurely, still it was one he would gladly carry 
out if he lived long enough. Why should not Rose and 
Theodore marry? Nearly two years’ seniority on the girl’s 
part was not so very much, and if Guy should turn up in- 
conveniently at some future time he could be easily put 
aside as an impostor. The more he thought of it, the 
more feasible the project seemed, though he did not dare 


I 12 


CHAR TER IS. 


to propose it to Cbarteris. He asked one day, in a careless 
manner, how his old place was looking, and the earl began 
to find fault with him for letting so fine a property go to 
the dogs. Forrester acknowledged the shame of it, and 
said he had serious thoughts of making a great change 
down there; he would go down in September and look 
around. An invitation to the Manor followed, as a matter 
of course, much to Margaret’s chagrin when she heard of it. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The next three years passed in peaceful happiness, un- 
marked by any event worthy of note. ‘‘Rochdale” grew 
and prospered, and came through all the ills of babyhood 
triumphantly. Little Rose spent her time between Stoke- 
Leighton and Charteris Manor, with an occasional visit to 
Brandon Towers. 

George Robson, had he been suddenly transported to 
Brandon, would not have known the place, it was so 
altered. The wall, that had done such good service as a 
shield for the deep villainy perpetrated within its shadow, 
was gone; the trees had been thinned out artistically; 
the old moat entirely filled up and leveled over ; walks 
and carriage-drives threaded their ways through the park 
down to the river, where a graceful bridge connected 
Brandon with Charteris ; the house had been thoroughly 
renovated and improved, yet the old walls bore marks 
of their years upon their rugged sides; additions, too, 
had been made to the house, but all in keeping with the 
original, of hewn stone. The-elm tree that had stood by 
the gate in the wall was left untouched, whether by acci- 
dent or design no one but Gilbert Forrester knew. 


CHAR TER IS. 


I13 

But when it was all done, and there was nothing to add 
or improve, Gilbert could not bring himself to stay there 
long at a time. He would come down for a flying visit 
two or thr-ee times a year, and bring Rose with him; but 
it always ended in his consigning his daughter to Marga- 
ret’s care, and returning to London until it was time for 
the child to pay one of her regular visits to her grand- 
father. 

When Rose was nearly five and Rochdale three, the 
old general, Rose’s grandfather, died. He proved himself 
as ^ ’cute’ as Charteris had suggested he might, in the 
disposal of his property ; while Rose inherited the bulk 
of it, Forrester could touch nothing but his annuity. 
He and Charteris were named guardians and executors. 
A month after her grandfather’s death another turn of 
fortune’s wheel brought more of this world’s goods to little 
Rose. The general was only about sixty years of age 
when he died ; over in Ireland he had an uncle, an old 
man of Imost ninety years, whose death he had been ex- 
pecting a long time, but who survived him nearly thirty 
days. This old man was Baron Worthington, a title 
which, descending in the female line, now fell to Rose, 
together with an impoverished estate and a meagre rent- 
roll. But these were evils that she could not feel, and 
Charteris, after going over tp inspect the barony, deter- 
mined to devote his attention to the recovery of a naturally 
fine property and the relief of the poverty-stricken tenants. 

The winter after Rose became Lady Worthington Char- 
teris determined to spend in Italy, and Forrester begged 
Margaret to take his little girl with them. To this she 
gladly assented. Their route was the usual route of 
tourists: Nice, Geneva, Florence, Rome, Naples — then 
to Rome again, thence to Milan and Venice. 

One day, in Venice, they were about to step into their 
10* 


CHARTER IS. 


I14 

gondola at the Piazza di San Marco, when another boat 
shot by them to an adjoining riva and stopped. The 
occupants besides the boatmen (it was not a gondola) 
were a monk in the dress of his order and a young lad. The 
youth was dressed in the picturesque garb of the Dalma- 
tian peasantry, but there was that in his air and bearing 
that showed he was not of them. He and his companion 
alighted, and the monk turned to him, saying a few words, 
then hurried across the piazzetta towards the Merceria. 
The lad threw himself at the base of the column of St. 
Theodore, and, drawing a flute from his pocket, put it 
together and began to play. A movement among our 
party drew his attention to them, and, looking up with a 
pair of large blue eyes, he met the gaze of Guy Charteris 
bent upon him. 

Charteris started and passed his hand over his brow ; 
when he looked again the lad had risen and was standing 
bareheaded before him. 

‘‘Oh, play something, please!” exclaimed Rose, in 
childish delight ; and Margaret laughingly turned to ask 
her if she supposed the young man could understand her, 
when she was startled by seeing him fling himself at Rose’s 
feet and seize her hand to cover it with kisses. “Eng- 
lish!” he exclaimed, “you are English — you speak the 
dear language that I have not heard from any lips but my 
own for five long years !” 

“Are you English, my boy?” asked Charteris; while 
Margaret gazed fixedly in his face, and asked herself where 
had she seen one resembling it, before? 

“Ah, si, signore — yes, sir— but I was very young when 
my uncle brought me away from England — and my 
mother died in Rome — and then — then— my uncle, her 
brother, went back to England, leaving me with Father 
Anselmo, and never came back.” 


CHARTERIS. 


‘‘Is he dead?” asked Guy. 

“Indeed, signore, I know not; I have lived at the 
monastery with the kind monks for five years since he left, 
but no word has ever come from him.” 

“Your name is ?” 

“Conway, signore — oh — do you know my uncle — 
George?” 

Charteris smiled at the simplicity of the question, and 
the boy himself saw how senseless it was. 

“Ah, no — that is not possible; he was always Uncle 
George to me; I knew no other name.” 

“ How old were you when he left you?” 

“Twelve, signore.” 

“And that was five years ago?” 

“Si, signore, e cinqui anni — it is five years.” 

“ My poor boy ! I wish I could help you ; but I see no 
way to do so,” replied Charteris. “I have no clue to 
work upon.” 

“ Would it not be well to see the monk he speaks of?” 
asked Margaret, turning to her husband. 

“Ah, it is too late — he will not return till evening; 
I am to meet him here at six o’clock,” replied the youth. 

“You speak English very well, Conway,” said Mar- 
garet; “is Conway your given name or that of your 
family?” ' 

“My uncle taught me, signora; Conway is my family 
name, the fathers call me Giulio.” 

“ Giulio Conway; and your uncle’s name ?” 

But the lad shook his head. 

“ Only Uncle George, — only George, — no more.” 

“We must not lose all knowledge of you, Guy,” said 
Charteris, taking out a note-book. “Write to me to this 
address, and if you ever find any clue that I can work up 
for you I will only too gladly do it.” 


CHAR TER IS. 


1 16 

“Vera'mente! Quanto son o felice ! Ah, grazie! grazie!’* 
exclaimed the lad, raising the hand Charteris held out to 
him to his lips. 

Margaret, too, gave him her hand and a bright, sweet 
smile; but little Rose held up her ruby mouth to kiss 
him with all childish innocence. He raised her in his 
arms and kissed her, then, as he put her down, she shyly 
pressed a little bunch of violets she had held into his 
hands. He kissed the flowers, then hid them away in 
his jacket. 

The English party returned to their gondola, and as 
the light craft shot up into the grand canal, Margaret 
looked back at the spot where they had left the lad, and 
saw that he had thrown himself at the foot of the column 
again and covered his face with his jacket. 

When Guy Charteris had last looked in the face of his 
oldest born it had been to kiss the childish lips a blithe 
‘‘good-night” near thirteen years ago, and this was how 
they met again. He was very quiet as they were rowed 
up to their hotel, and Margaret, understanding his mood, 
slipped her hand into his in silent sympathy. If he had 
but guessed the truth ! 


BOOK FOURTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

As Robson had left him, Guy remained with the kind 
monks. At first he used to watch eagerly for a letter or 
some tidings from his uncle, but gradually grew recon- 
ciled to his new life. 

Robson’s disappearance remained a mystery to all at 
the monastery, and Father Anselmo could not refrain 
from a fear that it was an intentional desertion of the 
boy, particularly when, the next quarterly payment of 
Guy’s allowance being due, there was no money forth- 
coming, nor was there ever any more. This, however, 
did not influence the father in his treatment of Guy, and 
the young life was made as bright as possible. But his 
naturally dreamy, meditative disposition was fostered by 
the quiet life he led up there among the Dinaric Alps, 
nor did the journeys he made several times with the padre 
to Trieste, and even to Venice, do much to dispel it. The 
old dilapidated town of Trieste, with its Jews and dirt, 
nor the dreamy floating in the Venetian gondola, were not 
changes calculated to awaken very enlivening thoughts in 
the boy’s mind. Not that Guy grew morbid or unhappy, 
but he began at an early age to have serious ideas, and 
often by expressing them to his friends. Father Anselmo 
or the organist, startled them by their strangeness or the 

117 


ii8 


CHARTER IS. 


maturity of thought they displayed ; while he could be 
merry and light-hearted, gay and frolicsome as any child 
at other times. 

Venice was his paradise, and he never lost an oppor- 
tunity of visiting it ; spending the time occupied by 
whoever accompanied him in transacting the business of 
his errand, in some one of the churches or palaces, or on 
the Piazza di San Marco. The peculiar Oriental archi- 
tecture of the cathedral had a strange fascination for him, 
as well as the balcony of the Ducal Palace, where he could 
gaze out over the open water and lose himself in reverie. 

It was on one of these visits, when Guy was about seven- 
teen years old, that the meeting between himself and his 
father, which we have already described, took place. It 
had a great effect upon him, seeming to rouse him into 
a desire to learn something about himself and his native 
land. The organist had been his companion that day, 
and as soon as they started to return to Trieste he told 
him of the interview. The monk saw in it the finger of 
God, and so also did Father Anselmo when he was told. 
Guy showed him the address which Charteris had given 
him, which was to his club in London ; but as he had 
made no mention of when he would return, the monk 
thought it would be better to wait until after the New 
Year before he wrote, as his English friend would then 
be more likely to be at home, and then he, too, would 
write. But Father Anselmo could throw little light 
upon the matter, for Robson had told him very little, 
and the sealed packet confided to his care was not to 
be delivered to Guy until he had attained his twenty-first 
year. 

It was in May that Guy — as we will still call him, though 
he had forgotten that name, and answered to the new one, 
Giulio, altogether — and his father had met, and the eight 


CHARTER IS. 


119 

or nine months which Father Anselmo advised him to 
wait seemed an age. He grew very restless, and could 
take little or no interest in his old occupations. His kind 
friend saw this with regret, although he acknowledged that 
it was but natural. He finally, in midsummer, wrote to the 
address given to Guy a long letter, with a full account of 
all he knew about his ward. He told his unknown corre- 
spondent that he was most anxious for the boy’s future, as 
he could not lead his present life much longer ; not that 
he was weary of the charge or wished to be rid of it, — the 
boy was dear to them all, and all felt the greatest interest 
in his well-being. But Guy would soon be a man, and 
while the little capital which had been accumulated for 
him was sufficient to keep him in comfort, he knew 
enough of the world and of Guy to feel sure that an 
objectless life would be bad for him and never satisfy his 
nature. He then suggested that Charteris should, if he 
really was interested in the matter, find some employment 
for the boy and constitute himself his guardian in Eng- 
land, which he was most anxious to visit. 

This letter followed Charteris about and reached him 
at last at Paris in November, their return to England 
having been fixed for the week before Christmas. 

Father Anselmo also gave the earl an account of the 
course of study Guy had gone through, showing him that 
while he was as ignorant of the world and the world’s 
ways as a child, he was well versed in books and all that 
books could teach him. 

To this letter Charteris wrote an immediate answer, 
acknowledging the wisdom of the father’s plan, and tell- 
ing him how and where Guy would find him — that if he 
joined him in Paris, he would care for him and take him 
to England with him. 

But before the answer reached the monastery, before 


120 


CHARTER IS. 


even the father’s letter had reached Charteris, an event 
occurred that changed poor Guy’s plans completely. 

One evening in September, while Father Anselmo, the 
organist, and their charge were seated upon the trunk of 
a fallen tree just outside the monastery walls, watching the 
glories of the sunset, and discussing the probabilities of 
some very great good fortune arising for Guy out of the 
interest the Earl of Straithness seeme’d to have taken in 
him, a weary-looking figure was seen to slowly climb the 
hill. The three paused in their talk and watched its ap- 
proach, when suddenly Guy sprang up, and, exclaiming. 

Uncle George ! Uncle George!” ran forward to meet 
him. 


CHAPTER II. 

It was indeed George Robson, come back as it were 
from the grave. Eagerly they plied him with questions, 
but they soon found that his mind was too confused to 
answer them. His desires seemed to be to escape some 
pursuing foe, and to reassure himself that Guy was near 
him and safe. 

He was very much fatigued by his journey, and it was 
several days before he recovered ; but even then his friends 
could see that whatever he had endured of mental or 
physical suffering had nearly wrecked him, mind and 
body. 

By dint of judicious questioning, Father Anselmo at 
length elicited from poor Robson the history of the last 
six years. It was not told easily, nor at one time, and the 
remembrance of what he had suffered, shut out from all 


CHARTER IS, 


121 


communication with the world and sickening with dread 
of what might happen to Guy, affected him strongly. It 
was not until several weeks after his return, and at a time 
when he seemed calm and collected, that Father Anselmo 
mentioned the new friend that seemed raised up for Guy, 
and told him of the letter he had written. The effect of 
this intelligence was very different from what the monk 
had expected ; instead of being pleased, Robson showed 
very great alarm and uneasiness. ‘‘ The Earl of Straith- 
ness,” he repeated to himself, over and over again ; “the 
Earl of Straithness !” 

“ Did you say he was coming here?” he asked. 

“ No,” replied the monk ; “ I proposed sending Giulio 
to him.” 

“Sending Giulio to him! Oh, no — no — \\idX must not 
be!” 

“ But did you not tell me that Giulio had rich relations 
in England, — people of standing, too, — and can you not 
see yourself that he is no longer a child — older in fact 
than his years? It is time his future was provided for — 
that he was preparing himself for a profession — or ” 

“Not while I live! oh, not while 1 live — I can’t part 
from him ; and he is not poor !” 

Father Anselmo found he could not reason any more 
with Robson, and that nothing could disabuse him of the 
idea that Guy needed nothing more than what he could 
give him. He ceased all attempts at combating the poor, 
broken man’s selfishness; and spoke to Guy on the sub- 
ject, telling him to be patient and God would reward him 
in the end. 

Poor Guy ! it was a bitter disappointment, but he bore 
it quietly, saying not one word to Robson. It was one 
of the peculiarities of the latter’s sadly-shattered mental 
state that, a feeling of alarm once communicated, it was 

F II 


122 


CHAR TER IS. 


difficult, almost impossible to overcome it, while all 
memory of the cause was lost. 

That night he told Guy they must fly for their lives — 
that a danger was pursuing them from which nothing but 
flight would save them ; that the monks were all leagued 
against them, and that if their intended flight was dis- 
covered, all would be over. To save themselves, they 
must go that night. Guy tried his best to disabuse his 
uncle of this idea, and to assure him that the monastery 
was the safest place he cOuld hide in — Father Anselmo his 
best friend. But all in vain : fly they must — and fly to- 
night. Finding that contradiction made him frantic, 
Guy desisted, and sought Father Anselmo, to ask his 
advice in the emergency. 

The monk felt there was nothing to be done but to 
yield to the half-crazy fancy, or else the poor, shattered 
mind might sink into positive lunacy. He told Guy to 
humor his uncle in everything he could, and gave him 
two habits in which they might pretend to disguise them- 
selves. He also gave him letters to a monastery of the 
order in Marburg, in Austria, advising him to get his 
uncle there or in the neighborhood, and as there was con- 
stant communication between the monasteries, they could 
correspond with each other without difficulty. He then 
took an affectionate leave of his foster son, and blessed 
him. 

Guy sought his uncle and told him he had prepared 
everything for their flight, and had thought if they wore 
those habits they would more likely get along unchal- 
lenged. Accordingly at midnight they passed silently 
out at a side door (all the doors were unlocked night and 
day), fearing to open the heavy front door, as in closing 
it some sound might be made, and Robson thought Guy 
was entirely too careless of noise ; what would become of 


CHAJ^TEIHS. 


123 


them if the monks heard them? When they were at length 
outside the walls, Guy turned and took a last look at the 
home, which had sheltered him for so many years, with a 
sigh of deep sadness. 

They pursued their tiresome journey steadily ; fortun- 
ately it was summer still in those southern latitudes, and 
they did not suffer from hunger. Father Anselmo had 
given Guy a sufficient sum on leaving the monastery (since 
Robson’s disappearance, so many years before, Guy’s 
little income had never been touched, and it had swelled 
into a nice sum), and promised more when they should 
reach Marburg. 

Guy found his uncle had no plan, beyond getting away 
from the monks, and did not seem to know or care where 
they roamed so it was not westward and was among the 
mountains. 

After weeks of wanderings, not so unpleasant, among 
the magnificence of the mountain scenery, Guy at length 
found himself in the neighborhood to which he had been 
directed. He was puzzled now to know what to do, — 
how to leave his uncle while he went into the city to pre- 
sent the letters and get news of his friends. He had led 
Robson out of the regular path or road, intending to 
reach a point on the mountain from which he could take 
a survey of the neighborhood, spy out the land, as it were, 
and form a rough guess of the shortest way to reach the 
city, which some peasants whom he had asked told him 
was five or six miles by the road, but only two if he got 
over the hills and meadows. They climbed and climbed^ 
and at length reached a small level space, where they 
paused to take breath and look around them. The pano- 
rama spread out before their eyes was magnificent in the 
grandeur of the mountains, and beautiful in the beauty of 
the fields and meadows lying in between, while far off, 


124 


CHARTER IS. 


up the valley, loomed a dome aud some spires, which told 
the wanderers where Marburg lay. Robson soon grew 
restless, and roamed around the little plateau. Presently 
he made an exclamation, and began pulling at some 
bushes which grew close up to the mountain side. Guy 
went to his assistance and to see what had excited him so. 
It was the opening into what seemed a cave, and which 
proved to be a large one, perfectly dry, and so high that, 
once past the entrance, which caused them to stoop 
slightly, Guy, who was quite tall, could stand upright in it. 
The cave was so near the end of the plateau that on one 
side of the entrance there was a sheer wall of rock nearly 
fifty feet down to where a mountain torrent rushed over 
its uneven bed. A false step, hastily made, and there was 
no salvation. 

“This is the place, Giulio; we can hide here ! No one 
would ever find us here!” exclaimed Robson. And in- 
deed it was the truth, for they had not followed any path 
in climbing to this height, only taken advantage of the 
least steep places. 

Guy answered gently, “Would you indeed like to make 
this our home?” 

“Yes 1 yes! Oh, Giulio, don’t go any farther; let us 
stay here !” Robson plead like a child. 

“Just as you wish. Uncle George; it doesn’t matter to 
me,” replied Guy, “only,” and he led him out on the 
plateau again, and pointed to the city, “there lies Mar- 
burg, the nearest town. You must consent to my going 
there and laying in a stock of necessaries ; we cannot 
live on air, or, if we have food, without means of cooking 
it.” 

“ Of course we can’t, Giulio.” 

“Then you are willing I shall leave you, for a whole 
day perhaps ?’ ’ 


CHARTER IS. 


125 

Robson paused a moment, looking closely into Guy’s 
face. 

' “You’ll come back?” he asked. “You’ll come back?” 

“Of course I will, uncle; of course I will,” replied 
Guy. 

“Yes, of course, I know you will ; and you won’t men- 
tion my name to any one, nor let any one see me?” 
Robson added, laying his hand on Guy’s arm and looking 
up at him, for the youth had outgrown his companion. 

Guy looked at the long white beard and the cowl-shaded 
face, and thought no one would know him ; that even if 
his dearest friend were to see him now, he would pass 
him by without a thought. 

“ No, you shall be perfectly safe ; trust me for that,” 
replied Guy, and Robson was satisfied. 

They made themselves as comfortable as possible for 
the night, with their knapsacks for pillows and the monks’ 
garments for blankets. The next day Guy repaired to 
Marburg, found the monastery, and delivered Father An- 
selmo’s letter. They were expecting him, having heard 
from the father through the usual post. Nothing could 
have been kinder than w'as his reception, and Father Ber- 
nard, to whom he was particularly recommended, assured 
him of his interest in him and in all that concerned him. 

By degrees Guy accumulated many comforts around 
Robson in hi*s retreat ; but he had to work very hard, for 
he could have no help. He could ask no one to come to 
their cave, and sometimes he felt very lonely and hopeless. 


II* 


126 


CHAR TER IS. 


CHAPTER III. 

The answer which Guy Charteris had written to Father 
Anselmo’s letter reached its destination in due time, and 
the monk wrote immediately, telling him of the arrival 
of the boy’s uncle, of the cause of his detention all these 
years, of the state of mind in which he was ; how com- 
pletely shattered his mental faculties were, and how the 
mention of his correspondent’s name had aroused him to 
a state of terror which nothing could overcome ; how he 
had fled with Guy — and of the direction they had taken; 
and that he still kept up a correspondence with the boy. 

Charteris replied that he could not understand the 
uncle’s terror at the mention of his name, as he, himself, 
had no knowledge of such a person ; he regretted the sad 
circumstances, and would always be ready to do what he 
could for the young man, and requested the monk to give 
him, occasionally, tidings of him. 

In December the earl and his family returned to Char- 
teris, and Forrester came down to the Towers to meet 
them' and receive his little Rose again from her temporary 
guardians. The child’s joy at seeing her father was very 
great, for she loved him dearly; but she was always happy 
at Charteris, and Guy and Margaret had begun to love her 
like a daughter of their own. 

The winter passed pleasantly, there being only a select 
and intimate party of visitors at the Manor. In February, 
when Parliament met, Charteris went up to London, and, 
for the first time since the late earl’s death, Rochdale 
House — the town residence — was thrown open. 

As soon as it was in readiness for her, Margaret came 


CHARTER IS. 


127 


up to take possession. She was to be presented at court 
this season, and there was some talk of Charteris being 
made member of the Privy Council. Soon after Parlia- 
ment met he had made another telling speech in favor of 
some object the Government had very much at heart, 
which did much towards the success of it. Altogether 
the world was looking very bright and fair to Marga-t t 
just then. Her little Theodore was growing into a lovely, 
manly child ; her husband was as tender and devoted as 
her heart could wish, and all the pleasures and enjoy- 
ments of that world lay spread out for her delight. She 
w'as very happy, and very grateful, and her heart yearn'^d 
in motherly tenderness over little Rose, although she still 
shrank from Forrester with unmitigated aversion. 

He also was in London for the season, and one evening, in 
conversation with him, Charteris was recalling some of their 
traveling experiences, and related the meeting of a young 
lad in Venice in whom he felt an unaccountable interest. 
Margaret happened to look at Forrester while Guy was 
speaking, and noticed that his face was ashy pale, and 
wore a scared look. But he governed himself with an 
effort, and asked if that was the last Guy had heard of 
the boy. The earl then continued to tell him of the let- 
ters that had passed between him and the monastery, and 
of the uncle’s return, alarm, and flight at the mention of 
his name. 

Forrester started at the mention of Robson’s name, and 
muttered an oath, then composed himself to listen to 
Charteris’s account. 

“A most unaccountable thing,” he continued, “for I 
have no idea who he can be. I remember long ago, when 
I was quite a young man, being introduced by Dervvent- 
water, of the — th Hussars, to a Surgeon Robson, and hear- 
ing afterwards that he had been dismissed the service ; if 


128 


CHAR TER IS. 


it is he, he must have a good memory and a very morbid 
dread of meeting any one connected in the least with his 
past life.” 

Forrester had listened silently, and had been told 
enough to understand it all. He knew his cue at once, 
and he answered, '‘It is indeed the same ; but his dread 
of you, Guy, was not so much a personal feeling as the 
fear that, through you, I should hear of his whereabouts. 
He is a deep-dyed villain, and that nephew of his — his 
sister’s natural child — was fortunate to escape from his 
guardianship for so long a time, else he would have made 
him as bad as himself. We have an old score to settle, — 
something that happened out in India, — and it is fear of 
me that keeps him on the Continent. He dare not return 
to England.” 

Margaret looked at him as he spoke, and knew he was 
lying, though why, she could not guess. Nor did a glimpse 
of the truth come to her. She had, after meeting Guy, 
wondered who he reminded her of ; and after her return 
to Charteris, as she gazed at Clare’s portrait hanging over 
the mantel in her own sitting-room (the Bluebeard cham- 
ber had been unlocked, its contents scattered, and the 
room was Margaret’s, as it had been Clare’s, own peculiar 
sanctum), she had been puzzled by a resemblance to some 
one, she could not think who, and after one or two un- 
availing attempts to remember, troubled herself no more. 

“But he did come back to England, it seems,” replied 
Guy, “and was immured by some enemy in a private 
lunatic asylum.” 

“ That is a fiction of his imagination, I rather think,” 
said Forrester, coolly ; “ he may have started for Eng- 
land, been taken ill, been detained in a hospital, and im- 
agined the rest. I know hinl' too well — he is an arrant 
coward, and will keep away from England while I live.” 


CHARTER IS. 


129 


‘‘Are you so implacable?” laughed Guy. 

“No,” replied Forrester; “I would not hurt him were 
he here before me ; he may live in England if he wishes 
it, for all I care — but you could not convince him of his 
safety, nor bring him over — poor fool !” 

And Margaret pondered over it all silently. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The winter passed drearily to Guy up there in his 
mountain cave, with only his flute and violin for amuse- 
ment, and the companionship of his half-crazy uncle, his 
dog, and his deer. He had always been fond of making 
pets of dumb animals, and now he had two, — both rescued 
from death by his means. One, a dog of the hound 
species, which, a pup of two months, had been injured by 
some means in the leg, and doomed to death as good for 
nothing. Guy happened to pass at the time preparations 
were being made for the execution, and bought the poor 
little trembling thing. The other was a fawn, which he 
found beside its dead mother, and took under his pro- 
tection. The two animals, although by nature antago- 
nistic, got on very well, grew up together, and seemed to 
agree in every particular. 

Robson was perfectly satisfied, and his nervousness 
greatly lessened by these months of entire rest and free- 
dom from intercourse with his kind. He grew thinner 
and weaker week by week, and seemed, as the days passed, 
more and more unwilling that Guy should leave him for 
any length of time. 

Meanwhile the mutterings of the coming storm grew 

F* 


130 


CHARTERIS. 


louder, and presently the war-cloud broke over the 
Eastern waters, and the flower of English and French 
youth hurried to the Black Sea, to win their spurs or lose 
their lives for the honor of their mother-land. Only 
faint- rumors reached Guy in his retirement, but they were 
enough to make him very restive under the life he was 
forced to live. All the world was busy and up and doing, 
ready to seize the offered opportunities. Only he, it 
seemed, was forced to waste the best years of his life in- 
active. However, it was only at times that he indulged in 
these repining thoughts ; he forced himself to be bright 
and cheerful before his uncle, and occupied himself in the 
study of the Sclavonic language and in the care of his 
dumb proteges. He was already able to speak fluently in 
French, German, and Italian, was a good Latin scholar, 
and, with these foundations, found it no difficult task to 
acquire others. 

Affairs meantime went smoothly on in England, so far 
as our dramatis personae are concerned, to all outward 
seeming at least. For the intelligence that Robson had 
reappeared startled Forrester out of his fancied security, 
and made him nervous and anxious. He visited the 
lunatic asylum, and found that there was no fault to be dis- 
covered, no connivance had been practiced by the man. 
agers; the escape had been purely accidental, and the 
physician in charge had written to him apprising him of 
the fact, — a letter which had evidently miscarried. 

.What would Robson do with his liberty was the next 
question ; in what condition was he physically and men- 
tally ; was he likely to live long, or was the restless and 
unhappy mind at length wearing out the body ? 

“Damn the fool!” Forrester exclaimed one day, after 
pondering the situation for an hour or two; “damn 
the fool, I say I But I am almost as great a one to sit 


CHAR TER IS. 


131 

here and wonder, when I can go and see for myself ; and 
I will!” 

This resolution, hastily formed, he determined to carry 
out at once, so little Rose and her governess were rele- 
gated once more to the care of Lady Straithness, while 
her father started to pay a visit, he said, to the seat of 
war. It was what many were doing through curious or 
charitable motives, therefore his intention created no sur- 
prise. 

He told his friends that he meant to visit Paris and 
Rome, then go to Malta, and await a vessel to take him 
to the allied fleet. But his stay in those cities was very 
brief. With all possible dispatch he made his way to 
Spalatro ; thence he had no difficulty in finding a guide 
to the monastery. 

Not knowing what Robson had told his friends the 
monks of his history, and fearing, if he used his own 
name, to be prevented from seeing him, and knowing 
that the Earl of Straithness would be looked upon as a 
friend of Guy’s, he determined, with a cool impudence 
all his own, to use the latter’s name in order to obtain 
his object. He had arranged a charming little romance, — 
the discovery of Guy’s parentage, etc., — with which to 
further gull the monks. 

Arriving at the monastery, he asked for Father An- 
selmo, and sent in a card bearing the crest and title of 
the Earl of Straithness ! 

Father Anselmo received him as Guy’s strange friend, 
and readily told him all he knew. Forrester acted his 
part well, and the monk was thoroughly deceived. His 
visit was not long, as he expressed himself most anxious 
to reach the boy, he having discovered who his friends 
were, and how he had been stolen from them, and he was 
eager to return him to a mother’s waiting arms. 


132 


CHAR TER IS. 


Father Anselmo gave him a letter to Father Bernard at 
the Marburg monastery, and told him in that way he 
would more readily meet Guy. 

At Spalatro Forrester had written to Charteris, and told 
him that finding himself so near he had concluded to 
visit the monastery, and discover for himself some par- 
ticulars of Robson’s late years ; and that, as doubtless he 
had been represented as the poor man’s arch-enemy, he 
would take the liberty of appropriating his title for the 
nonce, in order to obtain better information. 

The earl laughed at the cool impudence of the proposal, 
but Margaret was very indignant. However, the thing 
was done before they had heard of it, and so could not 
be prevented. 


CHAPTER V. 

Forrester reached Marburg safely, and easily dis- 
covered the monastery, where he presented himself, and 
was told that as Guy had been there only the day before, 
it would be some time before he would repeat the visit. 
They could direct him to the cave, but, if he were not 
pressed for time, it would be better to wait, as the uncle 
was in such a state that the sudden presence of a stranger 
might have the worst effect. 

So the baronet was forced to possess his soul in patience, 
and wait until Guy again visited the monastery. He 
spent his time wandering about the quaint old city, and, 
as he grew familiar with the place, in occasional strolls 
around the country. In one of these he narrowly missed 
meeting Guy, who, followed by his two pets, had been 


CHAR TER IS. 


133 


wandering about, and had sat down to rest upon the very 
stone Forrester was glad to reach a few moments after- 
wards. Had he known it, he was but a few hundred 
yards from the object of his search, and had he not been 
fatigued by an unusually long walk, but had kept on up 
the path he had climbed thus far, he would have reached 
the cave. But the end was not yet; a few more days were 
to be added unto him, and then ! 

Word came at last from the monastery that Guy was 
there, and Forrester hastened to meet him. Guy had 
been told that his Venetian friend had sought him out, 
and been waiting for him for so long. Great was the 
boy’s delight at the prospect of the meeting, and pro- 
portionately great was his disappointment when brought 
face to face with a perfect stranger. 

Forrester had not thought of anything unpleasant to 
himself in the anticipated interview. His conscience 
troubled him little now about the abduction of his cousin 
and her son. Guy Charteris had gotten over his grief, 
and seemed happier even than he was in those old days. 
The question of the legitimacy of his marriage would 
never be raised by him, Forrester, and so long as Robson 
was kept out of the way who else could raise it ? No, he 
never allowed the recollection of the past to trouble him 
now. This seeking after Robson was only a sort of 
morbid curiosity to see how his old ally and tool had 
borne the last six years, and — to make assurance doubly 
sure — to be satisfied as to his mental state, and the danger 
to be anticipated of discovery through him. Therefore 
he was not prepared for the faintness that overcame him, 
and the mist that passed before his eyes when Guy stood 
before him, and, tossing his hair back with a gesture so 
like his father, looked at him with Clare’s own blue orbs. 
He was himself again in an instant, only a little trembling 

12 


134 


CHARTED! IS. 


in his limbs and want of readiness of speech made him 
appear for the first time in his life awkward. 

“There is some mistake. I don’t understand ” 

began Guy. 

“ No, my dear boy; but I will explain it. I am not — 
not the one — not the Earl of Straithness, but I come from 
him, and by his authority.” 

“And your name?” asked Guy. 

“ I am Sir Gilbert Forrester, the cousin-german of the 
first wife of the earl, and consequently an intimate friend. 
As soon as he heard of my intention of traveling eastward 
he requested me to see you, and if necessary to use his 
name, to obtain an interview.” Forrester had now re- 
covered himself, and his tongue ran glibly enough. “A 
letter from the good father at the monastery had informed 
him of your uncle’s return, of his singular state of mind, 
and of his'flight from the monastery. The earl has felt a 
great interest in you, is your sincere friend, and willing 
to do everything in his power for your advancement, and 
wishes me to see this strange recluse uncle, in order, if 
possible, to overcome his remarkable dread of mixing with 
the world, the better to forward your interests.” 

“You and he are very kind,” replied Guy, “and I 
shall be ever grateful to you ; but I cannot leave my uncle 
'during his life, nor can you see him: he will see no one.' 
I dare not even employ a peasant about him.” 

“Strange, strange ; but, Giulio, I am an old friend of 
your uncle’s. If I could only see him, speak a few words 
to him, all this morbid dread would disappear. Have you 
never heard him mention my name?” 

“Never,” replied Guy, looking full at him. 

“Very, very strange,” said Forrester musingly. 

“Yes, it is strange; my life has been a strange one ever 
since I can remember ; but I am perfectly satisfied that I 


CHARTERIS. 


135 


could never obtain my uncle’s consent to an interview; 
the very mention of your desire for it would unsettle him 
again.” 

“ But why mention it? Why not take me out to your 
hermitage unannounced, and let me win my own way?” 

He would say I was joined with his enemies ; you do 
not, cannot, understand his state.” 

“Yes, I can; and I know he would say nothing of the 
kind. As soon as he saw me he would be only too glad.” 

Guy mused awhile, and Forrester left him to his 
thoughts, seeing that he was more than inclined to yield. 
At length he looked up. 

“Well, be it so,” he replied; “I have no key to the 
mystery of my uncle’s life. I may be doing right, — per- 
haps wrong, — God knows; I leave it in His hands.” 

“ And in whose better could you leWe it?” asked For- 
rester, in a tone of voice whose solemnity was belied by 
his eyes, which fairly sparkled with satisfaction at his 
triumph. “And the sooner we start the better,” he 
added, seeing Guy still sat lost in reverie. 

“'Yes!” he exclaimed, rousing himself. “Yes, let us 
go at once ! I must .say good-by to Father Bernard, and 
will rejoin you.” 

“ How do you propose to reach your cave?” asked the 
baronet, as they left the monastery. 

“ I always walk,” replied Guy. 

“But I cannot walk that distance, my young friend; 
you must come with me to my hotel, and we will find 
some kind of conveyance. You forget, I am not young 
like you.” 

“As you please,” was Guy’s answer; “only, as our 
hermitage is very much out of the way of all travel, a 
carriage will not be of much use after we reach the foot 
of the mountain.” 


136 


CHARTER IS. 


Oh, then we can walk. I am not entirely helpless, 
though I cannot do as I once could.” 

As they took their places in the open wagon they had 
secured to take them as far as possible up the mountain, 
Forrester called his valet and gave him a whispered order. 
The man returned to the hotel, and on his reappearance 
mounted the drag beside the driver. Guy saw this addi- 
tion to their company with regret and wonder and alarm, 
when, the man’s coat blowing aside, he discovered he 
had a pistol in his breast-pocket. But it was too late, 
and, indeed, he could not in courtesy object to the 
arrangement, so he suffered it in silence. 

An hour and a half’s drive brought them to the highest 
point their conveyance could be drawn ; thence the road 
dwindled to a mere cow-path, and they were forced to 
alight and pursue the rest of the way on foot. But that 
short time spent in the wagon had been enjoyed by Guy 
more than anything he could remember for a long period. 
The road was good, the day a lovely one, — cool enough 
to make a plaid not uncomfortable, but by no means 
cold, — and Forrester had never been so entertaining. 
Whether it was the reaction from the shock of seeing 
Guy, the relief of finding that his secret had been kept by 
Robson, and that Guy had no suspicion of what trouble 
he owed him, or whether it was the brilliancy of mind 
which we often see in those over whom the death-shadow 
is lowering, we cannot say; suffice it that, had his inten- 
tion been to fascinate the boy and to bring him into his 
toils, as the snake is said to do the bird, Forrester could 
not have succeeded better. 

As they drew near the end of their walk, Guy laid his 
hand upon his companion’s arm and paused in his walk. 
Forrester looked inquiringly ' at him, and followed with 
his eyes the gesture he silently made to draw his attention 


CHARTERIS. 


137 


to the panorama laid out before him. It was indeed 
superb, — mountains piled on mountains, and green val- 
leys nestling between, here and there dotted with cattle 
grazing, or the cottages of the peasantry; while over all 
there hung the purple mist, and the trees showed the first 
faint touch of Autumn’s fingering. Far off in the distance 
the towers and turrets of Marburg rose against the sky. 
Forrester took in the scene earnestly, and drew a long 
breath as he turned again to follow Guy. The rest of the 
walk was in silence, and in a few moments they had 
reached their destination. 

At first they saw no one, — the path touched the plateau 
at the farthest end from the cave, and the baronet paused 
again to drink in the beauty of earth and heaven, and 
then turned his attention to his immediate surroundings. 
A- fold of white flannel projecting from the mouth of the 
cave showed him the whereabouts of him he sought. It 
was, indeed, Robson’s accustomed seat, and where he 
spent much of his time, listlessly gazing up and down the 
valley. Guy moved to go to him ; but Forrester, laying 
one finger on his lip, with the other hand pressed him 
back and advanced alone, cautiously but firmly, until he 
was directly opposite the entrance. Then as he saw the 
figure clothed in the white flannel robe, its hands clasped 
listlessly in its lap, he did not speak, but stood looking 
at it. He moved again, and Guy saw with dread that he 
was standing very near the edge ; he had turned, too, so 
that the lad could see his face, and the diabolical sneer 
upon it frightened him. He made a step forward, and just 
then Robson raised his head. 

One glance, and he stood up and pushed his cowl back 
with both hands and gazed again, and Guy was alarmed 
by the expression of his face, but stood still fascinated, 
drawing his breath in short, quick respirations. He felt 
12* 


138 


CHARTERIS. 


like one who, in a dream, witnesses some important event 
occurring of vital consequence to the dreamer, but unable 
to move hand or foot to further or retard it. The men 
stood looking in each other’s faces for one long moment 
— then Robson took a step forward — another — and stood 
outside the cave. 

Still Forrester did not speak or move. His eyes for an 
instant left Robson’s and wandered over the mountain- 
side and up to the sky, then settled back into their former 
steady gaze ; he breathed through his set teeth, and his 
hands were clinched hard. Robson pushed his cowl far- 
ther back with his shaking hands, revealing his shaggy gray 
hair and long white beard, but his eyes .never left the 
other’s. 

At last, Gilbert Forrester — at last ! face to face.” 

He made a sudden move forward, and Forrester started 
back — started back one fatal step, and, as Guy and his 
valet sprang forward with a cry, fell backward over the 
precipitous edge. 

Over the edge, and down, down the fifty feet, to be 
dashed to a jelly against the rocky bed of the stream. 
Shudderingly Guy and the valet looked over, hoping to 
see some token of life; but no — the career of Gilbert 
Forrester was run, and he had gone to his last account.' 

Robson stood for several moments paralyzed ; then he, 
too, approached close to the edge and gazed down upon 
the mangled mass which was all that remained of him 
who had been his unrelenting foe — long and silently. 

Then he turned to Guy and grasped his arm : 

“I did not touch him, Giulio, you saw it ! I did not 
touch him ! his blood is not on my hands !” 

“No, no, uncle; it was an accident — he went too 
near!” '' 

‘ ‘ Y es — yes — an accident. ’ ’ Robson repeated the words 


CHARTERIS. 


139 

eagerly. Then he looked down once more upon the man- 
gled mass. 

When he turned again to Guy, his face was ashy-white 
and his features worked strangely: he looked at his 
nephew earnestly, then threw his arms up over his head 
wildly, and laughed aloud. 

“ Free, Giulio, free ! Free as air once more ! at last ! 
at last ! ’ ’ 

The words had scarcely left his lips when he staggered 
a moment, clutched at his breast with both hands, and 
would have fallen, had not Guy caught him in his arms. 
A small stream of blood oozed from his lips, and as Guy 
laid him gently down upon the grass his eyes opened with 
a gaze of agony into his face — then were glazed in death. 

He, too, had gone to his account. Is it permitted us to 
hope that in natures such as his, where the good found so 
much weakness to struggle against, that the evil was at 
times apparently uppermost, — that God’s mercy will not 
outweigh his justice ? 


BOOK FIFTH. 


CHAPTER L 

Three years have passed, and Guy has spent two of 
them at Cambridge, a close student. This course was the 
advice of the earl, to whom the boy had made his way 
as soon as possible after the tragedy on the mountain. 

He had not been down to Devonshire, neither had he 
seen Rose, whose grief for her father had been of that 
quiet, undemonstrative kind which outlasts more violent 
displays, and she still guarded his memory with the ut- 
most tenderness. She had spent the last three years in 
strict retirement at Brandon or Charteris, with her gov- 
erness, devoting herself to her studies. 

Neither had Guy seen Margaret; it so happened that 
their visits to London had been made at different times. 
But it is June now, and he is to spend the midsummer holi- 
days at Straithness. 

It is June, and the day which Robson had told him was 
his birthday; a falsehood, for he had been born in No- 
vember. A letter from Father Anselmo had arrived a day 
or two before, containing an inclosure which, the monk 
wrote, had been confided to him by Guy’s uncle previous 
to his hurried visit to England, with the injunction that, 
if he did not return, it was to be given to him to open 
on his twenty-first birthday. 

140 


CHARTER IS. 


141 

The young man sat with the package in his hand, and 
turned it over and over. He shrank from opening it, for 
what might it not contain of shame and sorrow ! He 
finally laid it down, and giving himself a shake began to 
walk the floor. 

Should he read it or should he not ? that was the ques- 
tion ! He was happy ; his friends were kind and willing 
to do everything for him ; his means were ample for his 
simple wants, and he had no debts; he knew not what Pan- 
dora’s box he might be opening by the breaking of that 
seal, — a Pandora’s box, it might be, without the last — 
hope. Surely his uncle had not kept him away from all 
his relations and in such ignorance of his family for 
nothing. His mother, — he had cherished her memory 
fondly, — could there be anything of disgrace resting on 
her name ? If so, he would rather not know it, — infin- 
itely better remain forever in ignorance ! 

Then again, he knew not who he was. He felt he 
could never take a place in the world — be really a man — 
without a name ; and was Conway his own name ? He 
felt a growing pride and ambition aroused within him 
since he had thrown away his boyhood. Could those 
feelings ever be gratified, be cultivated, even with the 
assistance of the Earl of Straithness, by a nameless man ? 
Would not the apple of success be but Dead Sea fruit 
under such circumstances ? Better know the worst than 
know nothing. It was a difficult question to solve, and 
one Guy felt himself unequal to. He finally decided to 
do nothing for the present, but to consult the earl while 
he was at Straithness. 

He fully enjoyed himself at the old castle, and visiting 
the places of historical and romantic interest around. 
Margaret, Theodore, and Rose were all the family at first, 
but several guests, invited with a view to Guy’s future 


142 


CHAR TER IS. 


advancement, soon arrived and added much to the enjoy- 
ment of the rest. 

Rochdale and Rose had been Guy’s constant com- 
panions on his expeditions into the neighborhood, 
and both children had grown very fond of him. Mar- 
garet sometimes accompanied them, and her society 
always added to Guy’s enjoyment, for she was the one 
woman in the world with whom he felt on easy, familiar 
terms, and she had a way with her of seeming to under- 
stand him before he spoke, — of knowing by instinct how 
he thought and felt, and sympathizing with each mood. 
He had a deep reverence and love for her, and felt no 
sacrifice on his part could be too great to give her hap- 
tiiness. 

When in his room at the castle, Rochdale would often 
seek him and beg for music; the boy never tired of the 
violin. Often Rose would beg him to bring his instru- 
ment to the family-room or out upon the terrace, and 
while he played she would sit at Margaret’s knee, her 
hand in hers, listening in rapt and dreamy silence. 

And Charteris seemed never to fail in the interest he 
took in the young man, constantly suggesting and pro- 
posing for the future. Still, with a strange hesitancy, 
Guy shrank from speaking to him about the packet. Sup- 
pose he should advise its being opened? He was so 
happy now, and that might be the end of it. 

One day Charteris had sought Guy’s apartment with a 
view, he said, to the discussion of business. Lord Gray, 
one of the guests, had taken a great fancy to the young 
man, and proposed taking him with him on a tour, partly 
of pleasure, partly diplomatic, which he intended making 
shortly. It would be a very extended one, — lasting three, 
four, perhaps five years, and would include not only most 
of the Continental countries, but the United States and 


CHAR TER IS. 


143 


some portions of South America. It was to Brazil and 
Buenos Ayres that the premier had particularly desired 
he should go on a mission requiring some delicacy. Guy’s 
knowledge of languages would be of great use to him, be- 
sides he felt a great interest in him, and thought the 
situation one which would be of service to him. Charteris 
thought so too j the only thing was, would Guy be willing 
to forego the university course, and his great desire to 
settle down in England ? 

But Guy did not hesitate ; he accepted at once and 
gladly. Then, when Charteris had expressed his satis- 
faction at his decision, he told him about the letter he 
had received from Father Anselmo, showing it to him, 
and of his perplexity. 

“Will you open it for me?” he asked suddenly, as 
Charteris turned the envelope over in his hand. 

For an instant the long white fingers hovered over the 
seal, then he shook his head. 

“No, my boy, no; your eyes and yours alone should 
be the first to rest upon the secret this paper contains. It 
is not for me to meddle with it.” 

And thus Guy Charteris put his son from him with his 
own hands. 

Guy replaced the package in the secret drawer of his 
desk whence he had taken it, and which contained an- 
other envelope in which was folded away a bunch of 
violets withered and dried. 

“Keep the package, Giulio, until the hour comes when 
you need the knowledge of the secret it contains, then 
open it bravely. But, under present circumstances, I see 
no necessity for the information, and, as you say, it may- 
be of a painful character, and do no good.” 

“ Yes, that is a good idea; but what if the need never 
comes?” replied Guy. 


144 


CHAR TER IS. 


Then open it when you feel strong enough to bear 
the pain it may inflict. I am sorry your visit to Straith- 
ness must be cut short, my boy, but Lord Gray starts in 
a fortnight. However, you must always look upon my 
house as your home, and let us hear from you often and 
regularly.” 

Guy approached the earl with unwonted moisture in his 
eyes. “Oh, my lord, my friend, how can words thank 
you for your kindness to the orphan ! May I one day be 
able to prove my gratitude !” 

And forgetful of his twenty-one years, — of the social 
distance between them, — he threw his arms around Char- 
teris’s neck and kissed him. 

The earl did not repulse him ; he held him to him as if 
he had been a woman, with one arm, and pushed his 
brown curls back from his forehead, gazing into the 
depths of his large blue eyes, while he wondered what so 
fascinated him in them. 

When Guy left Straithness it was with the regret of all, 
from the highest to the lowest, and kindest wishes for his 
safety and return. 

Margaret, as she took his hand at the last moment and 
looked up into his face, read there the unexpressed yearn- 
ing, and putting up her lips gave him a motherly kiss. 
Little Rose threw her arms around his neck and cried 
because he would not stay, and Theodore insisted upon 
accompanying him in the dog-cart to the station, and 
begged him to take Rollo,— a great Newfoundland dog, 
who had replaced Shott, long gathered to his fathers, and 
who was the boy’s special pride and pet, — he could think 
of nothing more valuable to give him. 

Lord Gray proved to be almost agreeable companion, 
and everything promised to be couleur de rose. Guy, 
after the pain of parting with his kind friends at Straith- 


CHARTERIS. 


145 


ness, felt all the satisfaction of having a definite object or 
plan, and the pleasure which youth always finds in novelty 
and change. 


CHAPTER II. 

It would be useless to follow the travelers on their 
journey. They turned their faces westward at first, and 
crossed the Atlantic to New York. There they found a 
hospitable welcome from Dr. and Mrs. Schroeder, who 
had been settled in their old home more than a year. 

Five, nearly six years sped swiftly by to Guy, and when 
at the end of that time he presented himself, a tall, sun- 
bronzed, bearded man, at the gate of the monasl*ery, his 
old friends did not know him. He found Father Anselmo 
and Father Pedro, the organist, still living; but there 
were many old, familiar faces missing, and some new, 
strange ones in their places. 

Lord Gray waited at Trieste for Guy to make this visit, 
so he could only give a few days to the home of his child- 
hood, and then had to rejoin his patron. Thence they 
went to Vienna, but Guy could not bring himself to visit 
Marburg. Passing through Berlin and Brussels they visited 
Paris, and then once more found themselves on English 
ground. 

Of course his first thought was for his friend, the earl. 
Letters had passed pretty frequently between them, but 
he had not heard very lately, and he was uncertain where 
they were. In Charteris’s last letter he had said some- 
thing about having to go over to Ireland, to Worthington. 
Rose was, by the terms of her grandfather’s will, to be of 
age at eighteen, and she then lacked only a few weeks 

13 


146 


CHARTEI^IS. 


of her birthday, and he intended taking her over to her 
Irish estate to celebrate it. 

On Guy’s arrival in London, he found the family was 
still at Worthington. Lord Gray’s movements had been 
so uncertain he had been unable to inform them when to 
expect him, and so his coming, though they knew he 
must return soon, would be something of the nature of a 
surprise. He decided to follow them, and, taking leave 
of his kind friend, started for Liverpool that night. 

On his way he could not but speculate on the changes 
which the last seven years had brought about. Rose, the 
little girl whose arms had been so tightly twined around 
his neck that day he left Straithness, was a young lady 
now, a baroness in her own right just entering upon her 
majority. He must remember all this, and call her by her 
title — Lady Worthington ! Theodore, the baby who had 
stood up in the dog-cart at the station, and striven with 
manly pride to keep the tears back, while he waved his hat 
as long as the train was in sight, was an Etonian or a 
Rugby boy now ! And the earl and countess, what of 
them ? Guy’s heart went out towards them with fondest 
affection as he thought of them. 

Worthington barony was situated in one of the loveliest 
parts of Ireland, down in the southwest. Hiring an open 
car at Cork, Guy started, prepared to enjoy fully the beauty 
of the country. It was August, and the day a perfect 
one, and the fifteen miles were soon gotten over. About 
a mile from Worthington, a stone having become wedged 
in the foot of one of the horses, the driver had some diffi- 
culty in dislodging it. While he was delayed, Guy dis- 
mounted from the car and strolled along the road, telling 
the man he could overtake him. 

He had not gone far when the clatter of horses’ hoofs 
along a side road attracted him, and he saw a young girl. 


CHARTERIS. 


147 


mounted upon a fine horse and followed by a groom, 
approaching him. As she reached the main road she 
turned and seemed to be waiting for somebody, and pres- 
ently far down the lane a horseman appeared, putting his 
horse to his fastest speed. As he approached she shook 
her whip at him and exclaimed, — 

*^Oh, Theo, you naughty fellow!” 

“Oh, you unkind Rosey, to run away!” laughed the 
boy, as he drew up beside her. “I’ll tell Giulio just as 
soon as he gets back how bad you are !” 

“I’ll tell, too,” she replied gaily, and then they turned 
their horses’ heads and saw a stranger standing near them. 

Guy approached and raised his hat. They both looked 
at his bearded face without recognition, and as her horse 
swerved at sight of him, Rose dropped her whip. 

He picked it up, and, as he handed it to her, said, 
“Lady Worthington, I believe?” 

“Yes,” she replied, with a questioning look. 

He returned the gaze and smiled. “Don’t you know 
me?” he said. 

“Giulio Conway! Hi! It’s old Giulio!” exclaimed 
Theodore, and in another instant he was on the ground 
wringing Guy’s hand. 

“I know you now,” said Rose gently, “and am very, 
very glad to see you!” and she put down her hand to 
him. 

“Here, Mike, take my horse; or, no, please get off 
and let this gentleman have yours,” exclaimed Rochdale 
eagerly. 

“My car will be along directly; perhaps Mike will wait 
for that, and ride on with the driver?” said Guy. 

“All right, yer honor,” replied the groom, turning 
away; and Guy sprang upon his horse and rode to Rose’s 
side. 


148 


CHARTER IS. 


CHAPTER III. 

As they galloped on, Rochdale’s tongue was not silent 
a moment ; he rattled off every item of news he thought 
would interest Guy, and fortunately did not need many 
answers, for he for whom he was exerting himself was far 
more interested in studying the fair young girl at whose 
side he rode. 

And Rose Forrester was worthy of his attention. She 
had developed into a womanhood passing fair. Her 
features were delicate and clearly cut, and the rose-bud 
lips, which had been put up with a childish kiss to Guy 
on that first meeting in Venice, were fuller and sweeter, 
but had lost none of their younger beauty. Her com- 
plexion was clear white and red, and her hair, a rich 
chestnut-brown, almost an auburn, was long and heavy. 
For greater convenience in riding it had been all braided 
together, and hung from under her hat in one long plait, 
the end of which was lost in the folds of her habit-skirt. 
Her eyes were brown, large, and soft in their expression. 
As they rode, however, she kept the lids shyly down, and 
once only did she raise them in speaking to Guy, but 
what she saw in his eyes caused her to lower them quickly 
again and brought a richer tint to her cheeks. But she 
was not displeased ; to tell the truth, Guy had always 
been her hero. The mystery attached to him, and his sad 
and romantic story, had always had a peculiar charm for 
her, and that short summer at Straithness had only served 
to strengthen her admiration. Then, too, he was so 
different in character from other young men: not that she 


CHARTERIS. 


149 


had been old enough to judge much of that before he left, 
but she had heard her guardian speak of him so often, and 
had read his letters with much interest. Besides that, his 
rich voice and his flute and violin had been other attrac- 
tions. And when, he returned, grown taller, bronzed by 
exposure and bearded like a pard, the picture her im- 
agination had formed was perfected. 

‘‘Here come Rose and Theo at the greatest speed of 
their horses!” exclaimed Margaret, as she looked from 
one of the windows of Worthington and watched the 
young people come up the avenue. “ I wonder if any- 
thing could induce Rose to let Selim walk a quarter of a 
mile — she’ll break her neck some day, and, of course, 
Rochdale will follow suit 1” 

“ Not necessarily,” replied Charteris, laughing, as he 
got up and lounged over to the window; “ but who have 
they with them, on Mike’s horse?” 

“A stranger,” replied Margaret; “I know no one in 
the neighborhood who has a beard nearly a yard long 1” 

As they neared the steps, Guy saw them, and taking 
off his hat waved it over his head; Margaret’s quick eye 
recognized him then. 

“It is Giulio Conway, dear — he has come right over to 
us!” 

“Yes, it is Giulio,” replied Charteris; and they both 
hurried to the door to greet the new-comer. 


CHARTER IS, 


150 


CHAPTER IV. 

No son could have been more warmly welcomed than 
was Guy, by the earl and countess. While waiting for 
the arrival of the car with his portmanteau, question 
followed question in quick succession. Then Charteris 
himself showed him to his room and told him he would 
only have time to dress for dinner, and sent Dennis to 
wait upon him. 

When Guy descended to the drawing-room, he found 
Rose there alone. She had changed her habit for an 
evening-dress of pale-blue silk, and her white neck and 
rounded arms gleamed through the meshes of costly lace. 
Her hair was arranged in most becoming fashion in braids 
and curls, and as she turned from the window where she 
had been standing and raised her dark-brown eyes, — 

“ In whose depths the beautiful and pure 
Alone were mirrored, — ’’ 

Guy thought he had never seen so lovely a picture. 

‘‘ Lady Worthington,” he said, as he drew a curious- 
looking box from his pocket, “I hope you will not be 
offended by the liberty I have taken in bringing you a 
souvenir from across the water.” 

“A souvenir ! oh, Mr. Conway, did you indeed think 
of me when you had so much that was new and strange 
to interest you ?” 

“ Could I ever forget Straithness, my lady !” was Guy’s 
answer, as he opened the box and revealed, upon a black 
velvet lining, massive ornaments of singularly wrought 


CHARTERIS. 


151 

and pure gold, consisting of ear-rings, pin, necklace, 
bandeau for the hair, bracelets and armlets connected by 
chains, all of the most dainty and peculiar workmanship. 

‘‘ Oh !” exclaimed Rose, how beautiful — how unique ! 
— I do thank you so very much, Mr. Conway.” 

They are of Mexican gold, wrought by Mexicans, and 
are, as you say, unique, this side of the water; though every 
Mexican woman of any pretension to wealth or position 
considers them a necessary part of her possessions. The 
box, too, is of Indian workmanship, and is a souvenir of 
Niagara Falls. I had it made by an Indian woman during 
my stay there, and the lining added in New York.” 

“You could not have brought me anything that could 
have pleased me more ; and now you may be sure I am 
too much of a woman not to be most anxious to try their 
effect — and that you may give me the benefit of your ex- 
perience, I shall make this pier-glass my toilette-stand,” 
said Rose, going to one of the mirrors and taking off her 
pearl ornaments as she did so. “Come,” she added, 
laughingly looking back at him, “you must tell me how 
to arrange this on my head. Do the Mexican women wear 
their hair * tucked up’ or ‘flowing?’ ” 

“Flowing, Lady Worthington; that wondrous structure 
must come down. Curls, too, are out of order; only 
braids are patronized by the sefioritas,” answered Guy, 
mischievously. 

“Then it must come down, and shall,” said Rose. 
“What would poor Kitty say if she saw her careful work 
so carelessly undone ! but necessity knows no law.” As 
she spoke she took out a few hair-pins and her comb, and 
the dark tresses fell almost to the floor. 

“ I can’t help it if it will curl, you know, Mr. Con- 
way, but we will try and forget that irregularity.” 

“Yes, we’ll excuse them for the nonce,” replied Guy; 


152 


CHAR TER IS. 


*^now the bandeau comes a little farther forward, right 
upon the edge of the hair, so that the centre ornament 
falls on the forehead — so — that is it ; now catch the side 
hair over the bandeau just above the ear,” he continued, 
looking at the beautiful picture in the glass ; ** a little 
farther back — no — not quite so tight, let it loosen a lit- 
tle,” he added, his artistic eye delighting in the effect, 
and almost forgetting that he was not painting a picture. 
“ There ! now the effect is perfect !” 

How long the ear-rings are!” exclaimed Rose, ^'and 
how heavy,” as the pendants nearly touched her shoul- 
ders. ‘‘Ah 1” she exclaimed, as slie tried to clasp the neck- 
lace, “it hurts me!” and she withdrew the heavy gold, 
showing where the tender skin had been broken by some 
roughened edge or point. “What a coward I am, and 
how rude — Mr. Conway, pray forgive me !” she added a 
moment afterwards, fearful of having wounded him by her 
thoughtless exclamation. 

“Forgive me,'^ replied Guy, “for causing you even 
that slight pain ; believe me, I would rather — ’ ’ he stopped 
abruptly, and then continued — “ let me see if I cannot 
remove the cause of the trouble with my knife ; there is 
very little alloy — only enough to work the gold — in these 
things, so of course it is soft ; I think I can make it all 
right. Ah, here it is; now, that is smooth; but let 
me see if there are any more,” he continued, looking 
over the ornament. “ No, it is all smooth now.” 

She took it and clasped it around her lovely neck in 
silence, put the pin in its place, and then picked up the 
bracelets. 

“ Permit me,” said Guy, taking them from her. hand, 
and clasping the armlet above the dimpled elbow, and the 
bracelet on the wrist, almost before she was aware of what 
he was about to do. “ You could not have managed them 


CHARTER IS. 


153 


without help,” he said quietly, **and it was not necessary 
to call Kitty for that — now, may I put the other on ?” and 
without waiting for her consent, he stepped to her other 
side and clasped the golden bands upon the other arm also. 

“ Dost thou like the picture?” he asked, bending over 
her as she stood arrayed in the odd ornaments, her full 
length reflected in the mirror. 

Rose looked up at him a moment, then down again, 
and said almost in a whisper, only, ‘‘You are very kind, 
Mr. Conway;” and turned away. 

Guy thought at first that she was offended, and hurried 
to say something to deprecate her displeasure ; but at that 
moment Rochdale entered and met Rose face to face. 

“ By Jove !” he exclaimed. “ What have we here ! An 
Indian princess surely !” 

“Are they not beautiful, Theo?” she asked. 

“ Very,” he replied, dryly. 

“ And was it not kind in Mr. Conway, to think of me 
when so far away as Mexico ?” 

“ Very. May I ask, sir, who you are, who presumes to 
make the Baroness Worthington so fine a present?” he 
turned upon Guy, as though he would have annihilated 
him by a glance. 

“A question I cannot answer, my lord, for I know not 
who I am — but ” 

“But !” tinterrupted the boy in a fury of temper; 
“there is no ‘but,’ sir — you — you are exceedingly im- 
pertinent !” 

“Lord Rochdale!” 

Guy did not recognize the voice for an instant, so trans- 
formed was the young girl by her anger. 

Rochdale started as if he had been stung, but without 
allowing him a chance to speak a word she turned to Guy 
and held out both her hands. 

G* 


154 


CHARTER IS. 


‘‘Let me thank you again for your beautiful souvenir, 
Mr. Conway, and for the kindness that remembered me 
when you had so much to think of.’^ 

Guy took the outstretched hands and gazed into the 
sweet, excited face; then, without reply, raised the hands 
one after the other to his lips and left the room. 

Half an hour after, as he was sitting at his dressing-room 
window, lost in a delicious reverie over all that Rose’s 
evident partiality for him might mean, a tap on the door 
suddenly dissolved his “Chateaux en Espagne,” and 
Lady Straithness entered. 

He sprang up to greet her, but she declined a seat and 
told him at once her errand. 

“ I have come, Mr. Conway, to beg you to excuse Roch- 
dale’s rudeness this evening — and to tell you how deeply 
I regret the occurrence. He will make his own apology, 
for he is thoroughly ashamed of himself, but I felt that I, 
too, must offer an amende. 

“I beg, Lady Margaret, you will say nothing more; 
it is very painful after — I fear I was too bold in bringing 
Lady Worthington a gift which she is kind enough to 
accept, but which ” 

“ Not too bold, Giulio; only rather unconventional! 
However, under the circumstances, it was excusable. I 
must say more, my dear Giulio, about Theo, to make 5’ou 
fully comprehend the situation. It has long been a favor- 
ite idea with Straithness, that Rose and Rochdale should 
marry.’’ 

“Indeed,” replied Guy quietly ; he had turned away 
as she spoke, not wishing her to see the expression of his 
face, and was watching, through the open window, the 
moon rise over the park-trees. 

“Yes. Sir Gilbert Forrester wished the same thing, 
and did all in his power to bring it about. Theo and 


CHARTERIS. 


155 


Rose have grown up together, and though she is the elder, 
she seems very fond of him. And Rochdale is devotedly 
attached to her.” 

Guy tried to say something, but his tongue was dry 
and refused its office ; at length he got out the words, — 

“And Ro — , Lady Worthington, does she return this 
devotion ?” 

“ As I said, she seems very fond of him, but, of course, 
nothing is settled ; for some time to come nothing can be 
settled, and Rose is a woman, therefore the state of her 
mind cannot so readily be discovered. My only reason 
for telling you this, Giulio, is to excuse Theo’s rudeness, 
if it can be excused, by giving you a reason for it, and 
also to beg you will say nothing to Straithness — to his 
father — about it. Will you promise me?” 

“Promise, my dear Lady Straithness? A word from 
you to me is a command ! Besides, you are making a 
great deal out of a trifle. Believe me, nothing painful 
will ever be connected with my remembrance of this 
evening.” 

“ That is very generous, Giulio; now I must go. You 
will come down ?” 

“ Most assuredly — with you.” 

“No, wait a moment, Rochdale must speak to you; he 
knows nothing of my visit.” 

“As you please, but it is not necessary.” 

“There, you are too generous; the boy must atone for 
his fault: it was a grave one.” 

When he found himself again alone, Guy sank into the 
chair by the window where he had been sitting, and, let- 
ting his head sink upon the sill, muttered to himself, — 

“ Fool ! I might have known such fruit hung too high 
for me ! Who am I, to aspire to the love of the Baroness 
Worthington? She tolerates and is kind to me as she 


CHAR TER IS. 


156 

would be to her dog ! No more ! Bah, Giulio Conway, 
have you come back to England to lose your manhood 
over a pretty face ? Still, she cannot be so consummate an 
actress so young. She defended me so nobly from Roch- 
dale’s anger !” 

So hope pressed down the doubts, and soon resumed 
her paramount influence. But his thoughts were in a 
tumult, and there was such a singing in his ears that he 
did not hear Rochdale’s knock, and started like a guilty 
thing when the boy laid a hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Giulio, forgive me; I was awful rude ” 

“There, my lord, not another word,” said Guy, laying 
his hand on the other’s mouth; “I can bear much from 
your father’s son, so no more. Is not that a beautiful 
picture, — the moon poised, as it were, upon that spear of 
cloud?” 

“But, Guy, please don’t call me 'my lord,’ or I’ll 
think you still bear malice.” 

“Very well then, Theodore, let us leave moon-gazing 
and join the rest in the drawing-room; come!” And 
taking the boy’s hand he ran lightly down-stairs. 


CHAPTER V. 

But when he had time to think over the conversation, 
he did not find quite so much cause for elation. Rose was 
free, to be sure, but might it not be that her inclination 
pointed also towards the accomplishment of the earl’s and 
her father’s wishes ? Rochdale was a boy, it was true, but a 
very frank, unspoilt, winning one; might she not love him 
better than she cared to show yet? But Rose was a woman. 


CHAR TER IS. 


157 


although only a girl in years. Girls bloom into their 
maturity as suddenly as a flower, which, a modest, simple 
bud at evening, greets the rising sun with the diamond 
dew upon its open petals, and boys are such very boys 
even after the down is upon their chins. It did not seem 
possible that she could feel the respect, reverence, love, 
and confidence for him that a woman, true to herself, 
must feel for the man she makes her husband. 

Such were some of Guy’s musings, when, after a pleasant 
evening, he found himself alone once more. He deter- 
mined to watch and wait ; to study the family-book laid 
open before him, and neither to throw away his chance 
by a too hasty decision, nor spoil all by a too sudden 
expression of his feelings towards Rose. 

How nicely we plan and arrange our actions and words 
for the future, and how certainly some unforeseen event 
upsets our most closely studied calculations! And Guy 
was no exception to the rule. 

They remained but a few days longer at Worthington, 
long enough to give Rose an opportunity of showing the 
beauties of her domain and the surrounding country to 
Guy, then after a trip to the Killarney Lakes they were 
to return to Straithness. 

Are you bound to return to Lord Gray by any par- 
ticular time?” asked the earl, as he and Guy were taking 
one of their customary walks, ‘‘or have you severed your 
connection with him?” 

‘‘By no means!” returned Guy; “I should be very 
sorry to do so. After so many years of closest intimacy 
and companionship I have formed an attachment for his 
lordship second — ” he hesitated, “second only to that I 
feel for you, my lord.” 

“Thanks, Giulio, thanks; believe me, I shall ever have 
the deepest interest and warmest affection in and for you. 

14 


CHARTERIS. 


158 

But you have answered the second part of my question, 
not the first; must you return by any specified time?” 

** I am free till December. Then Lord Gray wishes 
me to go to Algiers and Tunis wdth him for about six 
weeks.” 

“That will bring you back to London about the time 
of the meeting of Parliament. We will be in town 
then. Rose is to be presented, so you will find us ready 
for you, for remember, Giulio, my house is always your 
home.” 

“ Lord Straithness, how can I ever, ever return your 
kindness to the unknown orphan?” 

“Who knows? Some time you may, if you think it 
worth returning, but I am only pleasing myself, Giulio, in 
having you near me; there is a sort of restful feeling in 
your presence, my dear boy, that I cannot account for 

nor explain. As if But you will go with us to 

Straithness, and remain there till obliged to join Lord 
Gray ?’ ’ 

“You know I need no pressing to do so.” 

“That is right. And now that package, Giulio; have 
you ever opened it?” 

“No, my lord; I have never seen the necessity, and as 
the time grows longer I dread doing so more and more. 
Sometimes I have thought of destroying it.” 

“ Don’t do that, Giulio, don’t do that ! It may be of 
vital importance to you some day ! Guard it carefully !” 

“If you think it best, my lord, I will.” 

“Most assuredly I do. And now, Giulio, you have 

been long enough with us to judge ” He paused a 

moment, and Guy’s heart stood still. Was it of Rose and 
Rochdale he was about to speak ? 

But the earl continued: “ You will tell me plainly, my 
boy, how do you think Lady Margaret is looking ? does 


CHAI^TEI^IS. 


159 


she seem to be breaking down at all ? You can tell, not 
having seen her for some time, better than we who are 
always with her.” 

Indeed, Lord Straithness, you surprise me ! I have 
noticed nothing unusual in Lady Margaret ; her hair has 
changed rather more than her age should warrant ; but 
that, you know, is a constitutional defect : some turn gray 
very early.” 

‘‘And is that all you notice?” 

“ Yes, all. But what is wrong, my lord ?” 

“Ah, Giulio, Giulio, my happiness hangs by a very 
thread ! I have not spoken of it to any one before, but it 
is a relief to talk to you. Last winter, while we were at 
Charteris, Lady Margaret had a very strange and sud- 
den attack, which very nearly proved fatal. Dr. Bonny- 
castle, by his unremitting care, — and fortunately he was 
at the Manor when she was seized, — saved her life ; 
but even when she was recovered he looked so grave, 
and asked so many questions about Mr. Thornton’s death, 
and that of his wife, that I insisted upon his telling me 
what he had in his mind. He then informed me that 
my wife had had an attack of heart-disease ; that the dis- 
ease was one that could not be checked, though very slow 
in its developments, generally ; still that she was liable to 
these attacks at any time, and might die in one of them. 
At the same time that she might live many ye^s — survive 
me,nn fact.” 

“ My dear Lord Straithness !” cried Guy, wringing his 
hand. 

“ So you see, my dear boy, the Damocles’ sword.” 

“Does Lady Margaret know?” 

“No. She must be kept in perfect ignorance, lest 
she grow nervous and so accelerate the disease. I have 
borne the terrible knowledge as well as I could all this 


i6o 


CHARTERIS. 


time, and tell you, knowing that you will sympathize with 
me and help me.” 

“ Indeed I will. But this is terrible?” 

‘‘ How terrible you can but guess — but, remember, never 
by word or look show any anxiety.” 

You may trust me, my lord.” 

They had been approaching the house during this con- 
versation, and now as they emerged from the shrubberies, 
found Margaret and Rose ready dressed, awaiting them 
on the terrace. 

‘‘Do you know what time it is, truants?” asked Lady 
Straithness, as they came up. 

“ It must be late from the looks of things,” replied her 
husband. “ Come, Giulio, we have no time to spare. 
Dinner will be announced presently.” 

Guy delayed an instant to hand Rose one of her name- 
sakes, then hastened after the earl, to his dressing-room. 

At dinner he noticed that the flower he had given Rose 
nestled among the lace at her breast; yet she showed no 
consciousness of having done anything to please him, and 
he was uncertain whether it had been chosen for its own 
beauty or as his gift. 


t 


BOOK SIXTH. 


CHAPTER 1. 

My dear husband, are you not doing a very foolish 
thing?” asked Lady Margaret one day as she joined the 
earl at one of the windows at Straithness, and watched 
the forms of Guy and Rose disappear down the avenue in 
close conversation, evidently, for his head was bent over 
hers very frequently. 

“Why, and how, Pearl?” 

“ In having Giulio here, thrown so constantly with 
Rose.” 

“ Still I do not comprehend.” 

“Yes, you do, Charteris — yes, you do !” 

“ Indeed, I do not; my dear, you will have to explain 
yourself more fully — I grow stupid as I grow older.” 

“ Men are always stupid about some things,” she replied, 
laughing. ^ 

“Thank you, in the name of my sex; yes, I am very 
stupid now, for I do not see when or how I have done a 
foolish thing — still, not being Solomon I may ” 

She looked up at him, and saw that though his face was 
solemn his eyes were brimful of fun. 

“ Now, you are laughing at me — that is man-like too; 
you do understand what I mean.” 

“You’ll have to put it into plainer language than you 
14* 161 


i 62 


CHARTER IS. 


have done yet/’ he replied, seating himself and drawing 
her down upon his knee; '^come, Pearl, what bugaboo 
disturbs your serenity?” 

‘‘Don’t you think, dear, you are leaving Giulio and 
Rose too much together?” 

“Not at all; they can take care of themselves and of 
each other — ^at least he can of her.” 

“ But Theo — ought we not to guard his interests in his 
absence?” 

“Ah, there’s where the shoe pinches, is it? Well, 
how must we go about guarding Rochdale’s interests?” 

“ By preventing young Conway from seeing so much 
of Rose, particularly in these long walks they are so fond 
of taking tete-a-tdte — or by telling him our plans; that, 
however, I have already done, and it has had no effect 
upon his behavior. Don’t you think it rather dishonorable 
in him, when he knows what we wish and intend, to do 
as he does?” 

“That depends. Did you tell him Rose was positively 
engaged to Theo?” 

“ No. How could I? There is no engagement, though I 
am sure it is not Rochdale’s fault. I told him what we 
wished and how much attached Jheo was to her ” 

“ And Rose? Did you say anything of the state of her 
affections?” 

“ I told him I thought she cared a great deal for Theo ; 
though, of course, the real state of her feelings could not 
be known, as no words had been spoken on the subject.” 

“Then, my dear, Giulio is free from all blame; all’s 
fair in love and war, you know, and I dare say he thinks 
if he can win her he has the right to try. I don’t think 
Giulio Conway could be guilty of a dishonorable thought 
— much less action. I confess I had not noticed the state 
of things; men are stupid sometimes. I’ll admit; but if. 


CHAR TER IS. 


163 

as you think, Giulio has become attached to Rose, he is 
perfectly right to try to win her.” 

“And Rochdale ” 

“ Is a boy of fifteen ; — five — six years must pass before 
he begins the world, and you can’t keep Rose under a 
bushel all that time. His ‘calf* love for her will have 
died a natural death in less than that time, and his choice 
for life may be a very different character.*’ 

“ I am sure I thought you had the match very much at 
heart,” Margaret said quietly. 

“ My dear Pearl, where did you get the idea?” 

“ Now, Guy, you know you often used to speak of it.” 

“As a thing that might happen, and which, if it did 
come about naturally, would please me; but not as a 
thing I should plan for or insist upon.” 

“Oh, well — then it is all right, I suppose,” replied 
Margaret, rising, as her eyes filled. 

“ No, my darling, it is not all right, if there are tears 
in those eyes!” he exclaimed, drawing her down to him 
again. “ Why, Madge, Madge, what a foolish notion to 
take into your head 1 Don’t you see that Theo is one of 
the most boyish of boys, and that Rose is thoughtful and 
mature beyond her age? The three years’ difference in 
their ages is really doubled by their dispositions; and 
while it is very likely Theo may love Rose now with a 
boy’s first passion, it is very certain Rose can never love 
him enough to marry him.” 

“ But Conway — would she not be throwing herself 
away to marry him? Who is he?” 

“ Who he is he does not know himself ; but that he is 
in every way worthy of Rose would be true were he the 
son of the lowest hind that lives ; oh, the blessed consist- 
ency of you republicans !’* 

“I see we don't think alike on the subject, and never 


164 


CHAR TER IS. 


will,” she said, coldly, as she made another attempt to 
leave him. ‘"I felt a great interest in the young man at 
first, and do still ; but I cannot understand your infatua- 
tion, my Ibrd.” 

‘‘Not yet, my lady,” he replied, still detaining her. 
“Look here, Madge, darling!” he continued, drawing 
her clouded face around towards him, “ are we going to 
have our first quarrel, after nearly twenty years of married 
life, for nothing? I confess, I do feel a great interest and 
affection for Giulio Conway, and if I thought Rochdale 
would ma'k^ another such man I should ask no more. 
There is something about the young man that draws me 
to him with strange force j but my precious wife is not 
uneasy, surely, nor fears that her claims or those of our 
child will be compromised? Come, Pearl, such petty 
feeling is unworthy of Margaret Thornton and of my 
wife.” 

He had never spoken in such a tone before, and for 
answer she sobbed piteously. 

“There, Pearl, there; forgive me, darling, it is many a 
year since I caused tears to fill your eyes; I never thought 
to do so again.” 

He felt terribly alarmed, dreading one of her attacks 
and the consequences. But she dried her eyes presently, 
and held up her lips for a kiss. 

“And now, dear, I would like to ask your approbation 
of a wish I have, which I will not carry out unless you 
approve. Shall I tell it to you?” 

“ By all means,” she answered. 

“I want to do something substantial for Giulio Con- 
way. Do you still feel interest in him enough to allow 
me to carry out my wishes?” he asked, smiling. 

“ Oh, Guy, you know I would not prevent your doing 
anything for him. Because I love Rose as a dear daughter. 


CHARTERIS. 


165 

and wished — and was mistaken as to your plans, — do not 
think so meanly of me as to think I would do aught to 
injure Giulio Conway!’* 

“Spoken like my Margaret, my Pearl of Pearls p-^Well, 
what I want to do is this — you remember Fernlie, in 
Kent?” 

She nodded. 

“It is a small place, givPng a rent-roll of only four or 
five thousand pounds, and we never go there ; what do 
you say to giving it to Giulio? Rochdale will not miss 
it, nor you, should you survive me ” 

“Hush, Guy, hush !” she said, putting her hand over 
his mouth, “don’t sp^k in that way. Give it to him by 
all means! I am only too glad you thought of it. -It 
returns a member to the House, does it not?” 

“Yes; and the election comes on this year. I thought 
Giulio might run for it, and with my influence he is sure 
to win.” 

“ My noble Guy,” she said, putting her arms around 
his neck and kissing him, “my precious husband! and 
now, dear, I must leave you ; our tete-a-tete has lasted as 
long as that of the young folks, for see, there they come 
up the avenue.” 

She left him as she spoke, and reached the hall. He 
turned to look out of the window, and as he did so he 
heard her smothered cry of “ Guy !” And sprang to the 
door in time to see her fall at the foot of the staircase. 

Again the attack was a violent one, but again the fell 
destroyer was held back from his victim, and Margaret 
recovered. 


i66 


CHARTERIS. 


CHAPTER II. 

And Guy and Rose? 

Oh, the oft-told tale ! Oh, the hopes and dreams and 
loves of youth ! What words of mine can picture the 
happiness, the perfect satisfaction, the joy without flaw or 
drawback, that simple existence was to them ? They 
neither thought nor planned for the future; they were 
content to drink the blissful cup the present placed at 
their lips. That is, when they were together. When 
alone, Guy had many a struggle with himself. He sup- 
posed that what Lady Straithness had told him was correct 
as to the earl’s wishes for the match. Still, he was puzzled 
by his patron’s perfect indifference as to their being so 
much together, and his never once showing, by word or 
look, that he thought Guy was overstepping the bounds of 
his uncertain position. And there had been so many 
opportunities by which he could have intimated his wishes 
on the subject. Lady Straithness he thought looked a 
little more coolly on him than she had done, but the 
change was so slight he persuaded himself it was only in 
his own fancy and consciousness. 

Sometimes he thought he would go away, he was doing 
wrong to remain. Then he would tell himself that he 
had not sought the invitation to Straithness ; it would be 
silly in the extreme to cut himself off from so much happi- 
ness when he would be obliged to leave it soon to fulfill 
his engagement with Lord Gray. One thing, too, he 
was satisfied about : Rose did not love Rochdale. To her 


CHAR TER IS. 


167 


he was a boy, loved as a younger brother, the companion 
of her childhood, and dear to her for his many noble and 
good qualities, but love him as the man she would marry? 
How could she? But did she love him — Guy? On that 
point he was not so certain, and longed, yet dreaded to 
know the truth. 

So the glorious autumn days passed. There were several 
other guests at the castle, — men and women of note in the 
social or intellectual world, — and Guy fully enjoyed their 
society; but no moments were so precious as those 
passed beside Rose Forrester. They had many quiet 
talks, too, on sober and serious subjects. One of these 
conversations was important, being on a topic which was 
to have an influence on their future they little thought 
of at the time. How often, afterwards, did they remember 
that evening and every little adjunct of the scene ! 

It was an unusually mild afternoon in October. Summer 
was still struggling with Winter, and unwilling to acknowl- 
edge herself vanquished; the sun shone quite warmly; the 
later flowers still lingered on their stems ; and, though 
over all the trees the beautiful month had thrown his ori- 
flamme, only a few, here and there, had rejected the mantle, 
and cast its glories to the earth. They were walking 
along their favorite path, which led up the hill beside a 
noisy brook, which tumbled and slid and babbled along 
over the stones and moss down to the distant river. They 
were fond of this walk, and had often taken it, amusing 
themselves watching the gambols of the water, or the 
effects of sun and shadow on the surrounding scenery. 
To-day the air was clear and only pleasantly fresh, bring- 
ing a brighter color to Rose’s cheeks as it touched them, 
and she had never looked lovelier. 

They had been reading the “Tale of Two Cities,” and 
were talking over the beautiful devotion of the friend; 


i68 


cha'rteris. 


thence the conversation changed to sacrifices in general, 
and a vicarious atonement. 

A woman might be able to give up all hope of happi- 
ness in this world for the sake of making an atoi>ement 
for another’s crimes, but I doubt if a man could,” said 
Guy. 

** There you do your sex wrong, Giulio,” replied Rose. 
/'I think man as capable of sacrifice as wor — ” 



V No, they are not ; a man’s nature is mdr^essentially 
selfish than a woman’s ; they are selfish even where they 
love the deepest.” 

“I grant you that,” replied Rose, ‘-but I do deny that 
they are not able to rise above that selfishness when 
occasion offers. You must not try to give me such a bad 
opinion of yourself as that.” 

“ Well,” said Guy, “ it is a point the truth of which I 
hope we neither of us will have occasion to try ; but if we 
did, I fear I should need some very strong support to 
enable me to act up to your generous ideal.” 

“ And do you doubt, Giulio, of that help being given 
you?” she asked, stopping in her walk and looking up at 
him. 

He gazed down into her beautiful eyes, all his soul in 
his own. 

“Never, Rose, while ” But the words that were 

trembling on his lips were destined not to pass them that 
day. A gay laugh awoke the echoes near them, and a 
dog bounded out of the underbrush beside the path, fol- 
lowed by two gentlemen and a keeper, with guns over 
their shoulders. 

“What luck, Mr. Forbes?” asked Rose of one of them. 

“Very little, my lady; the birds are shy.” 

“I never saw such ill luck in my life,” remarked the 
other gentleman. 


CHARTER IS. 


169 

'‘Then you had better hasten home,” replied Rose, 
"and forget your disappointment m a game of croquet.” 

" With you as a partner?” he asked. And Guy watched 
for Rose’s answer eagerly. She was about to assent, when 
she happened to glance at Guy, and the yearning, dumb 
appeal in his face decided her. 

"Not to-day. Sir Edward,” she replied; "I promised 
to drive Lady Julia Seton over to the ruins, so you will 
have to find a substitute.” 

Involuntarily she glanced at Guy again, and read his 
thanks in his eyes. She dropped her own, and during 
the rest of the walk to the castle hardly spoke. 


CHAPTER III. 

Two or three days after this interrupted interview, a 
letter from Lord Gray summoned Guy to London. He 
promised not to detain him long; it was only a little 
matter of business for which he required his presence. 
But even for the short period of two weeks Guy regretted 
being taken away from his happiness. The earl bade him 
hurry back, and Margaret said something kind about his 
return ; but nothing satisfied him until he saw the pleasure 
which sprang into Rose’s eyes when he mentioned that his 
stay would be short. 

He was at his lordship’s service all day ; but one 
evening, having nothing to do, he decided to visit 
Covent Garden Theatre, where he saw a new play adver- 
tised. When he had procured his ticket and taken his 
place in the stalls, he discovered that he was very early, 
for there were only two or three people scattered about in 

H 15 


CHARTER IS. 


170 

the house, and he glanced around carelessly until his 
attention was more particularly attracted by a couple near 
him. They were evidently father and daughter, — the 
man not more than forty-five or six, but prematurely old 
from care and anxiety, and the girl had certainly not seen 
more than eighteen summers. That they were desperately 
poor it only required half a glance to see, and Guy won- 
dered how they could afford the seats they occupied. The 
girl was very pretty, with a delicate fair beauty, which no 
plainness or poverty of dress could disfigure, and the man 
had been handsome before sorrow or anxiety had thinned 
his hair and dashed it strongly with gray, or lined his 
face with a heavy finger. Guy saw that the two were very 
nervous, and that every one who entered the house was 
eagerly scanned and counted. Presently a young man 
came into the stalls, and on seeing this couple went over 
to them and spoke pleasantly. Guy thought the face of 
the new-comer seemed familiar, but was more interested 
watching the expression which passed like a ray of sun- 
shine over the girl’s countenance, and seemed reflected in 
a more subdued manner in the man’s. 

The young man who had last entered at length looked 
at the number of the check he held, and began to search 
for his seat. It so happened that it was the one next to 
that occupied by Guy, and as he took it he glanced at 
Guy, and seemed to recognize him also, partially. Two 
or three times they caught each other’s eyes as they 
glanced furtively at each other. And at last the stranger 
laughed gaily, and said, — 

“We certainly have met before ; but where, I am as 
much at a loss to say as you seem to be. My name is 
Wetherby.” 

“ Yes, I know it is now. And mine is Conway — Giulio 
Conway.” 


CHARTER IS. 


171 

‘‘Exactly; how stupid in us not to remember! And 
what have you been doing since you left Cambridge to 
run round the world with Lord Gray?” 

Guy replied to him by giving an acount of his travels. 
Wetherby and he had been quite good friends at college; 
that they were not intimate was owing only to Guy’s 
reserved disposition. 

“And where are you staying now?” 

“ At the Oriental, where I shall be happy to see you 
before I return to Scotland ; I am visiting my kind friend 
and patron the Earl of Straithness. ” 

“Oh, fortunate of men!” exclaimed Wetherby. 

“Wherefore?” asked Guy. 

“To breathe the same air with that charming Lady 
Worthington ! Why, she was the toast of London last 
season, although not regularly out, and there isn’t a mar- 
riageable youth from twenty to sixty who is not ready to 
be at her feet. But let me give you my card.” 

Guy took it, and thanked him, and not wishing to 
make Rose the subject of conversation just then, asked 
Wetherby who the gentleman and young girl were to 
whom he had spoken on entering. 

“ Oh, he is the author of the new play, and as he is in 
very bad health and still worse circumstances, the success 
to-night is of great importance to him. His name is 
Lowry. ’ ’ 

“Poor fellow! I hope he will not be disappointed !” 
returned Guy, and as the orchestra just then began the 
overture, the young men remained silent and settled 
themselves comfortably to give their attention to the 
play. 

It was a success, but the eagerly-hoped-for termination 
of his anxiety was almost too much for the nervous man, 
and when eager cries of “author !” “author !” resounded 


172 


CHARTER IS. 


through the house, and the daughter turned around with 
glad congratulations on her lips, she found her father had 
fainted. Wetherby sprang up to go to them as soon as 
he saw what had happened, and, with a natural impulse, 
Conway followed him ; together they got the poor man 
into the air, and restored him to consciousness. But he 
refused to return to the theatre, and asked Wetherby to 
accompany him home. 

** I must go first, papa, or mamma will be so frightened 
if she has no preparation !” exclaimed the daughter. 

“Conway, will you? — Mr. Conway, Miss Lowry,” 
said Wetherby. 

And thus introduced, he offered her his arm and they 
hurried out of the theatre ; they walked quickly, and 
only spoke occasionally; the girl too anxious to get home, 
and Conway not knowing what subject of conversation 
to start under the circumstances. 

He was very gentle with the girl, and had offered her 
his arm regardless of her shabby dress. Just as he bent 
over her to hear some trifling remark she made, a gentle- 
man passing looked at Conway curiously, and as he got 
beyond him stood still and, looking back, watched him 
for some distance. 

It was the Earl of Straithness. 


CHARTER IS. 


173 


CHAPTER IV. 

Charteris was a little annoyed at meeting Guy thus 
accompanied, but not being suspicious, he guessed pretty 
nearly at the truth, supposing he had been called upon by 
some female in distress to render her temporary assistance. 
He called the next day at the Oriental, but Guy was not 
at home. 

Regretting the necessity of waiting any longer before 
seeing him, he walked slowly down the street, and had not 
gone far before he overtook Lord Gray, who, linking his 
arm in that of the earl, introduced his companion, a rela- 
tion of his wife’s, an Irishman with the historic name of 
O’ More. 

O’ More, or The O’ More, which was his proper title, 
was about thirty years of age, frank, genial, and generous, 
like all his race, and Charteris had not looked into his 
well-opened blue eyes twice before he liked him. He 
had just come into an estate in Ireland in the neighbor- 
hood of Worthington, and expressed his desire to make 
the acquaintance of the young baroness. 

An invitation to Straithness followed as a matter of 
course. The three gentlemen walked slowly along, when 
suddenly Charteris saw Guy standing at the corner of the 
next street, talking to the same shabbily-dressed female 
with whom he had seen him the night before. He glanced 
at Lord Gray, but remembered his lordship’s shortness 
of sight, which would have prevented him from recog- 
nizing his own father ten feet from him, and in his heart 
blessed the defect, for he might have hastily misjudged 
Conway, and unfortunate results might have followed. 

15* 


174 


CHARTERIS,. 


Before they reached the corner, Guy moved on with 
his companion in earnest attention to what she was say- 
ing; they walked down the street, he with his hands 
crossed behind him and his head bent to listen, she with 
her face turned towards him, gesticulating slightly but 
gracefully and speaking rapidly. 

A young man came up to them, was about to speak to 
Guy, then noticed his companion, and passed on, turning 
afterwards to give the couple a queer look, which expres- 
sion was still lingering on his face as he passed the three 
gentlemen. 

Charteris was really distressed and anxious to get rid 
of his companions, so that he could think the matter 
over. And turning about in his mind how he could ex- 
cuse himself he saw Guy hail an omnibus and put the girl 
into it. Then, as he was about to proceed on his walk, 
he noticed the three gentlemen and hastened eagerly to 
greet them. There was no shrinking from meeting Char- 
teris’s eyes — no embarrassment in Guy’s manner, and the 
earl was satisfied that there was nothing in the affair which 
could not be explained. 

After the introduction to O’ More, Charteris said, — 

“ I was at the Oriental just now, Giulio ; I wish to in- 
troduce you to an old friend, and that you should go 
down to Kent with me, if Lord Gray can spare you for a 
few days.” 

‘‘Certainly, Straithness, certainly; he need not return 
until you are willing he should. Don’t let us detain you, 
gentlemen, any longer; au revoir !” 

They parted, and Guy and the earl returned to the 
hotel. 

“Your coming to London was a sudden thing, was it 
not, my lord ?” 

<<No — o,” replied Charteris, “I should have come 


CHARTER IS. 


175 


later positively, and I thought it would do just as well 
now.” 

They talked about commonplace affairs until they 
reached the hotel, when Guy invited the earl to his room. 
Then he handed him a cigar, took one himself, and, 
having wheeled an easy-chair before the fire, asked Char- 
teris to be seated. The earl took the offered chair, while 
Guy leaned carelessly against the mantelpiece. 

‘‘Well, what have you been doing with yourself, Giulio, 
since you left us?” asked Charteris. 

‘‘Attending to his lordship’s business while he needed 
me, and after that getting through the spare time as best 
I could,” replied Guy, knocking off the ash of his cigar 
as he spoke, and so losing the keen look the earl gave 
him. 

“Seeing the world, I suppose,” said the latter, laughing. 

“ Hardly ; unless you mean the natural world, or the 
world of London as seen in the museums, theatres, parks, 
etc., not the world of men.” 

It never occurred to Guy to explain to the earl any- 
thing with reference to his companion of the morning; it 
never occurred to him that he had seen her even. 

“ Well, we will go together to Covent Garden to-night, 
Giulio, what say you?” 

“To-night, my lord? I am sorry, but I have an en- 
gagement.” 

“ Can’t you break it?” 

Guy thought for a moment. He had promised Lizzie 
Lowry to call at their house that evening, and knew 
her father would, with the weakness of an invalid, be dis- 
appointed if he did not come; besides Wetherby, had told 
them of Guy’s familiarity with the by-ways and odd nooks 
of the Continent, and Mrs. Lowry was anxious to consult 
him as to the best place and cheapest they could find to 


176 


CHARTER IS. 


which to take her husband, whom the doctor had ordered 
to a milder climate for the rest of the winter, which order 
could now be obeyed, as the successful play had replen- 
ished their exchequer. 

Not very well, my lord; I couldy but ” 

“Never mind, then; when we come back from Kent 
we will go. Can you start in the 10.45 train to-morrow 
morning?” 

“Yes, easily, since his lordship has furloughed me.” 

And after a little longer conversation the earl went 
away, and, hailing a hansom, was driven to his club. 

“I wish Giulio had told me about the girl of his own 
motion, but he certainly did not seem to have any guilty 
secret. His talk was too unembarrassed, and he did not 
avoid my eye at any time. Well, I may be deceived in 
him, but I’ll trust him till he proves himself unworthy, 
and meantime will not act as if I suspected him. I will 
go to Fernlie to-morrow, and if he is pleased, make out the 
deeds on my return to London.” 

So ran Charteris’s thoughts as the hansom jolted him 
over the rough streets. 


CHAPTER V. 

“Halloo! Yoicks! Is it Scotland, my boy?” asked 
one young man, an inmate of a room in the Foreign Office, 
of another who entered the same. The speaker was a 
handsome, merry-eyed fellow, who evidently took life 
easy, and did not allow the duties which kept him at his 
desk from ten a.m. till four p.m. to wear upon him physi- 


CHAR TER IS. 


177 


cally or mentally. The one to whom he spoke was also 
a good-looking young man, but he had premature marks 
of wear about his face that betokened a life of dissipation. 
He went to his desk and turned over the letters there. 

“ Scotland it is, my most anxious friend; sorry for you, 
Leslie, that you haven’t an old aunt to coddle you up! 
Hi! what’s the matter with the old lady her hand shakes.” 

He had been looking at the address of the envelope as 
he spoke, and now his eyes remained fixed on the delicate 
characters traced on it, and his face grew sober, thus 
showing more plainly the lines upon it. 

“Why don’t you open the letter, Maitland?” asked a 
third clerk, who had just entered the room and begun to 
take off his wrappings. 

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” retorted 
Maitland, savagely. 

“ Hoity-toity, we’re on our high horse this morning !” 
replied the new-comer, and before Maitland could reply, 
a messenger entered and summoned the former from the 
room. 

Maitland dropped into his chair and read his letter, 
then he sat for awhile with one leg thrown over the arm, 
swinging his foot and playing with the envelope which 
lay upon his desk, while his gaze seemed entranced by a 
spot of ink upon the sheet of blotting-paper which was 
pinned down over the leather cover. 

“Anything serious, Malcolm?” asked Leslie, coming 
over to him and laying his hand kindly on his shoulder. 

“ No, I think not; but I’ll read the letter. Jack, it will 
interest you, too. 

“ ‘ Dear Nephew : — Once more I write to bid you come 
to the old woman ; it may be the last time, boy, for I 
have had a warning that I am not for long in this world. 

H* 


178 


CHARTER IS. 


Never mind what it was ; if I told you you would only 
laugh at an old woman’s superstition ; therefore, I will 
not. But come and bring your friend ‘‘Jack” with you. 
The Yule-log shall be burnt upon Christmas, and the old 
house be made as gay as possible for you. I love the 
banks and braes of my native land, — no one better, — but I 
regret that she neglects this season of peace and good-will 
so strangely, and have transplanted the English merry- 
makings at that time to this uncongenial soil. However, 
you have heard me talk on that subject before : it is old. 

“ ‘ The folk at the castle are very gay, and Lady Rose 
the idol of all. The earl has gone to London for a few 
days. His prot^gd, Mr. Conway, has been in town some 
weeks or so, and is expected back with his lordship. Be 
sure you bring “Jack” with you. 

“ ‘ Lillie is well, and sends love to you and kind regards 
to Mr. Leslie. 

“ ‘ Ever your affectionate aunt, 

“ ‘Elizabeth Maitland.’ ” 

“I am much obliged to her for her kind invitation,” 
said Leslie, whose face, somehow, looked ruddier since 
the reading of that last paragraph. 

“And you’ll go, of course?” 

“ Cela va sans dire.” 

“Well, how comes on the play?” 

“But slowly; Lowry fainted in the theatre last night, 
and I am going there to-night to see him. Will you go ? 
It is their usual ‘weekly,’ you know.” 

“ Thank you, yes.” 

Leslie turned to go to his desk, hesitated, then went 
back to the other’s side. , 

“Maitland, you won’t mind my speaking plainly; but 
I hope you mean all square and honorable there.” 


CHARTERIS. 


179 


Maitland looked up at him quickly. “I don’t know 
that I mean anything, Jack; can’t a man admire a pretty 
face without being called to account?” he replied, testily. 

It was nearly nine o’clock that evening when Guy pre- 
sented himself at the house of the Lowrys. Evidences 
of the success of the play were shown in the improved 
habiliments of mother and daughter, whose dresses, 
though plain and inexpensive, were evidently new, and 
in the additional comforts gathered around the invalid’s 
chair. 

Years before, when fortune’s favors were more frequent 
than they had been lately, Mr. Lowry was in the habit of 
collecting his friends around him one evening in every 
week, and this custom had continued in spite of adverse 
fortunes up to the present time. Lizzie was but a little 
girl when Jack Leslie, then a youth of eighteen, had been 
brought by an older friend of both parties to one of these 
reunions. He had literary aspirations himself, but, for- 
tunately for him, was not obliged, like Mr. Lowry, to 
depend on the favor of publishers for his support. Find- 
ing the family kindly and hospitable, so far as a cordial 
welcome was concerned, Leslie continued to go, until it 
came to be a regular thing that Wednesday evening should 
be spent in Ormond Crescent. And he had been the 
means of bringing Malcolm Maitland to the house, — a 
thing he had begun to regret, when he saw Lizzie’s eyes 
brighten at his coming, and her cheeks mount their rosiest 
hues at mention of his name. Not that he was jealous, 
for he had never had a thought for the girl warmer than 
friendship, but he was anxious lest her feelings should 
become interested where she was only doomed to disap- 
pointment. 

Guy found about twelve or fourteen persons collected in 
the parlor when he arrived. Two of them were ladies. 


CffARTERIS. 


'i8o 

and among the gentlemen were our fellow-clerks of the 
Foreign Office. Introductions being over, he found his 
way to Mr. Lowry’s side and soon was deep in the dis- 
cussion of the relative merits of Cannes, Nice, or Bigorre. 
After sitting with him about half an hour, he rose and 
sought Mrs. Lowry. He told her his voice was decidedly 
for the latter place, and advised her to try and induce 
her husband to give up Cannes for it. Then he went 
over to Lizzie and asked her to sing, and led her to the 
piano. 

She sang well, having a clear, sweet voice, with good 
method, and accompanied herself with taste. Music and 
conversation were the order of these evenings, with noth- 
ing in the way of refreshments but a glass of water, and 
ever since she had been old enough to be in the parlor 
she had contributed her share of the entertainment by 
singing and playing. Consequently she had no shyness 
about doing so. 

Guy enjoyed the spicy conversations very much ; there 
were witticisms and sprightly badinage without the least 
shade of vulgarity. And among those present were several 
whose names, seen on the title-page of a book, would 
guarantee its excellence. He was the first to leave, how- 
ever, having several letters to write before retiring. As 
soon as he was gone, questions were asked about him; 
soon it was found that he was the protege of two influ- 
ential members of the peerage, the Earl of Straithness and 
Viscount Gray, and a garbled account of his first meeting 
with the former, in Venice, was given. 


V 


CHAR TER IS. 


l8l 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next day the two went down into Kent. Fernlie 
was a lovely little gem in perfect order, and Guy was so 
delighted with it that he expressed himself rapturously. 
Charteris took him all over the estate, introducing to him 
the steward and one or two of the principal tenants. 
The house was small, but perfect in its appointments, and 
stood, as Charteris Manor did, upon an eminence over- 
looking the sea. 

** Have you never resided here, my lord?” asked Guy, 
as they sat over their wine at dinner. 

*‘No,” replied Charteris, “I have not had time; what 
with my duties in Parliament, at Straithness, and the 
manor, this little place gets woefully neglected.” 

“ ’Tis a pity,” said Guy; **what a cosy little nest it 
would make for a small family.” 

As he spoke he remembered those with whom he had 
spent the previous evening, and thought how happy they 
would be to find themselves here. 

After spending two days in going about the neighbor- 
hood and making Guy familiar with all the surroundings, 
they returned to London. 

“lam not willing to release you from attendance yet, 
Giulio,” said the earl, as they settled themselves in the 
railway-carriage; “I want you to go and see an old friend 
with me this evening, for I must return to Scotland to- 
morrow.” 

“ I am at your lordship’s service as long as you require 
me,” replied Guy. 

i6 


i 82 


CHARTER IS. 


The old friend was Mr. Upham, who was prepared for 
the visit by a letter from the earl, but who was not pre- 
pared for the face he looked up into when Guy was intro- 
duced to him. 

Notwithstanding the full long beard, there was a some- 
thing in the face — in the large, soft, blue eyes and the 
formation of the brow — which he recognized without being 
able to place them. He looked bewildered from one to 
the other of his visitors for an instant before he recovered 
himself sufficiently to greet the stranger, and Charteris 
noticed the peculiar manner, but, attributing it to the 
nervousness of old age, took no further heed of it. Guy 
was pleased with the old gentleman, and Mr. Upham 
seemed to take a decided fancy to Guy, and so the visit 
passed off pleasantly to all. 

When the earl parted with Guy that evening he told 
him they would expect him anxiously at the castle, and 
look for him as soon as Lord Gray could spare him. 

The next day a large business-envelope was handed in 
to Guy’s address at the Oriental, from Mr. Upham — and 
on opening it, it was found to contain a letter from the 
earl, and the title-deeds of Fernlie, made in his, Giulio 
Conway’s, name. 

Guy’s gratitude was sincere, and he immediately wrote 
to Charteris — and his second thought was for the Lowrys. 
His engagement with Lord Gray would prevent his occu- 
pancy of the house for some time to come \ why not place 
it at their disposal, and so save them the expensive journey 
to Cannes or Bigorre, and all the necessary extra outlay 
at such a place ? He would consult Wetherby, and, if he 
approved, lay the matter before the family that very 
evening. 

Wetherby did approve, and together they sought the 
Lowrys that night. There they found Malcolm Maitland, 


CBAI^TEJ^IS, 


183 

who was to start for Scotland the next day. As soon as 
he had the opportunity Guy made the offer of Fernlie as 
a substitute for Cannes, and was thanked most gratefully 
and his offer accepted as freely as it was made. Maitland 
having left before Guy spoke, he could know nothing of 
the arrangement. The next day Guy went down to Kent 
to make ready for his guests, whom Wetherby was to 
bring down in two days’ time. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Among the guests whom the Christmas festivities drew 
to Straithness were The O’ More and Lord Gray ; Guy did 
not accompany his patron, but remained in London a few 
days longer, to perfect his arrangements with regard to 
the Lowrys’ tenancy of Fernlie. We know that Malcolm 
Maitland and his friend ‘‘Jack” had left London also 
for “ The Evergreens,” as Miss Maitland’s cottage ornee 
was called. Miss Maitland had recently become a neigh- 
bor of the earl’s, being only three miles distant from the 
castle, but an acquaintance had been formed between the 
ladies with a mutual liking, consequently she was invited 
to bring her nephew and his friend to Straithness when 
they came down. 

' Lillie Maitland’s brown eyes had danced with delight, 
though shyly veiled with their long lashes, and her cheeks 
had turned rosy-red and dimpled with smiles when she 
greeted her brother’s companion. As for Jack, he held 
the little hand in his as if he would have kept it there 
forever. 


CHARTEJilS. 


184 

The O’ More had not been twenty-four hours in the 
house before he was ready to cast himself at Rose Forres- 
ter’s feet. He had seen much of the world and of society, 
and never before had yielded himself captive to woman’s 
charms. And the young baroness could not be seen with- 
out being admired by all as she moved among her guar- 
dian’s guests a very queen. She liked The O’ More 
extremely, charmed by his frank, happy disposition, his 
ready wit, and pleasing intelligence, and, while she showed 
that liking, kept him with ready tact from overstepping 
certain bounds'. He could not understand her, knowing 
that she was not engaged, and, while such a line of con- 
duct only made him love her the more wildly, it caused 
him to form a very erroneous opinion of her character, 
and set her down as a flirt. 

Rochdale also returned home for the holidays, and it 
was not many days after his return that, seeing The 
O’ More’s devotion and spurred on by jealousy of him 
and of Guy, he determined to find out what Rose’s senti- 
ments towards himself were. 

The interview was a stormy one on his side, for Rose 
assured him that, while she had always felt and always 
would feel (unless he proved himself utterly unworthy) a 
warm and sisterly regard for him, further her heart did 
not carry her. In vain he pleaded and begged, and poured 
forth upon her his own passionate love — she was not to 
be moved. 

And when at length, stung to madness by her coldness, 
he taunted her with throwing him over for a perfect 
stranger or a nameless adventurer, the creature of his 
father’s bounty, she silenced him at once and bade him 
leave her. 

Later he came again and begged her forgiveness, frankly 
and penitently, for Theo, with all his faults, was naturally 


CHARTER IS. 185 

a noble boy, and, knowing he had done wrong, was not 
ashamed to make the amende. 

Of course there could be no very warm feeling on his 
part towards Giulio Conway, who, regretting the circum- 
stance, could not blame the young fellow, and never by 
word or look resented his behaviour. 

The earl, awakened to what was going on by what 
Margaret had said to him, soon saw the ugly temper which 
Theo was displaying, and took the first opportunity of 
showing him the folly of his behaviour. He told him 
what he had already said to Margaret, that it was not to 
be expected that Rose would ever care for him more than 
she did at present. As for his blighted hopes and all that 
nonsense, he had better wait till the beard was formed 
upon his chin before he talked in that style, and a few 
more wholesome if rather unpalatable truths. As for 
Giulio Conway, Charteris told Theo that, as his father’s 
guest, — an honored and loved guest, — there was a certain 
respect due him which he was sorry to see his son had 
failed to show him, and he hoped he would immediately 
amend his behaviour in this regard. 

Never in his life before had the earl spoken thus to his 
son, and the boy, stung by his father’s manner, and burn- 
ing with a sense of injury from all around him, took 
refuge in that surest of all refuges for only sons, his 
mother’s arms. Literally; for, throwing himself into 
them, he sobbed out his accumulated griefs upon her 
sympathizing breast. But Margaret was a woman of 
sound sense as well as warm heart, and she knew she 
could do her boy no greater harm than to encourage his 
present state of mind. More gently than the earl, but 
none the less firmly, she repeated in substance what he 
had said, and led Rochdale at last to see that Rose was 
not to be won by ill-temper, and that the world was not 
16* 


i86 


CHARTER IS. 


all darkness because she refused his suit, and that, although 
he felt hurt and very unhappy now, he had naturally many 
years yet to look forward to, and might find as great happi- 
ness in the future as the present was withholding from 
him. 

So poor Theo went back to college having taken one 
lesson from life, the bitterest perhaps which the great 
Master teaches, but one which all must learn — disappoint- 
ment. But we anticipate. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

At length a letter was received from Guy, saying he 
would be at Straithness upon a certain date, and the after- 
noon of the day on which he was expected, the party from 
the Evergreens were at the castle. They had been over 
several times before, and Malcolm expressed himself so 
warmly in admiration of Rose, that Jack Leslie was thank- 
ful poor little Lizzie Lowry was not there to be tormented 
by her lover’s defection, and he also began to fear that 
her reign over the fickle heart of Maitland was at an end. 
He knew Maitland had had more than one love-affair, 
though he knew nothing dishonorable on his part in con- 
nection with them, and many a time when he saw what 
an impression the handsome face had made upon the 
lonely heart of Lizzie, he feared he had done the poor 
child more harm than good in bringing them together. 
Gradually, however, he found that her influence over 
Malcolm was gaining ; he shook off, by degrees, some 
boon companions who were taking life at a fast and furi- 
ous rate, he tried to overcome his love of liquor, and in 


CHAR TER IS. 


187 

every way altered for the better. Still, the old habits 
were very tyrants, and were not willing to relinquish their 
prey without a struggle, and Lizzie had not triumphed 
completely yet. 

That afternoon the young men (Rochdale was not 
among them) were collected in the billiard-room knock- 
ing the balls about, when some one mentioned Guy's name, 
and the conversation naturally turned upon him. The 
billiard-room was separated from the library by a narrow 
hall, with doors leading into it from each room. It so 
happened that these doors were open, and that Rose had 
occasion to go to the library just at this time. She heard 
“Conway” and “ Fernlie” without having her attention 
particularly drawn, but presently some one said, — 

“ Oh, Wetherby writes me that the earl has made the 
fortunate young man a present of Fernlie, and that the 
first use he makes of the gift is to establish a family there 
by the name of Lowry, to prevent them from carrying off 
their pretty daughter to the south of France, the doctors 
having decided that change of air is necessary for the 
father.” 

“Lowry? Did you say Lowry?” asked Maitland, with 
a strange tightening about the heart. 

“That was the name,” replied the other. 

“Then that must have been the young person I saw 
him tuck away so carefully into an omnibus just before 
the earl came up with him one day in the street. The 
same was the occasion of my introduction to him,” re- 
marked The O’ More. 

“ Then Fernlie came just in the nick of time,” replied 
the first speaker. 

Rose heard no more. With a strange sickness about 
her heart she passed with noiseless footsteps up to her 
own room, and, locking the door, stood for a little while 


CHARTERIS. 


1 88 

with her hands pressed to both temples ; then she wrung 
them together and muttered to herself, — 

No — no ! There is some explanation — it is not true !” 
and with a wailing sob threw herself down upon the floor 
and wept bitter, scalding tears. 

That night Guy arrived. The greeting of the earl and 
countess had all its wonted cordiality, but a change had 
come over Rose which was very palpable. He was utterly 
at a loss to account for it, and naturally, when after a day 
or so he witnessed the devotion of the young Irishman 
and saw the pleasure Rose showed in his society, assumed 
that her heart was touched by his evident love and that 
all hope was over for him. 

And poor Rose ! In her bewilderment at the shock her 
faith in Guy had received, she found solace and com- 
fort in the frank, noble nature of O’ More, and uncon- 
sciously allowed him to see it. And when he did see this 
change in her manner towards him, and dreamed of all 
it might mean for him, his happiness knew no bounds. 

The careless words spoken over the ivory balls had 
other fruit, also, but unmixed with evil. When the Mait- 
land party prepared to return to the Evergreens that night 
Malcolm went up to Jack, and linking his arm in his drew 
him from Lillie’s side, where he had been awaiting the 
conclusion of the adieux, and said, — 

“ Old fellow, give up the drive in the moonlight for 
to-night and walk with me — I’d die if I got into that 
carriage ! Besides, I want to talk to you.” 

“All right!” replied Jack, and so, after putting the 
ladies into the landau, he told them he and Malcolm 
would bid them good-night there and enjoy the moon- 
light, a good smoke, and a walk all three in one— and, of 
course, not reach home until long after they had retired. 
While he was speaking, he rested his hand upon the door ; 


CHARTER IS. 


189 


by the merest accident the carriage-wrap fell over it, and 
as he ceased, soft fingers were pressed upon his, as the 
ladies acquiesced in the arrangement and bade the young 
men good-night. 

“ Do you believe this story of the Lowrys going to 
Kent ?’ ’ asked Malcolm, as they tramped down the ave- 
nue. 

“ I see no reason not to believe it, Malcolm — but I see 
no reason for uneasiness. Those who have been here 
longer than we say that Lady Rose’s partiality for Con- 
way was very marked, while his devotion to her was 
patent. He is not a man to throw aside such brilliant 
prospects for the sake of a few hours of dalliance with 
Lizzie — and if he had any intention of wronging the 
girl, he would not have transplanted the whole family to 
his lair.” 

^‘But Lizzie is very beautiful and very confiding — 
different in every way from this self-sustained, proud 
baroness,” replied Malcolm, with lover-like inconsistency 
resenting the idea that Guy would not see something in 
her to charm him, at the same time that he was ready to 
shoot him if he did. “Might not her very childish- 
ness attract him, as affording such a contrast to Lady 
Rose?” 

“ She is without question a very dear little girl, Mait- 
land, and in every way worthy of your estimation of her 
— still I do not think she is the sort of woman to win 
Conway away from his allegiance here ; of that you may 
be sure,” said Leslie. 

“ Well, I guess you are right — you always are, old fel- 
low, and I am never able to settle a question in my own 
mind until I know what your opinion is ! I don’t know 
how I’d get along without you.” 

Leslie smiled at this, and then a sudden thought seemed 


190 


CHAR TER IS. 


to strike him, and with another smile and a wink, as if 
he held another self at arms’ -length and wanted to see if 
the joke was understood by both, he laid his hand on 
Maitland’s shoulder and wheeled around to face him in 
the moonlight. 

** If that is the case, old fellow, let me give you a bit 
of advice. Write to Lizzie to-morrow. Tell her what 
you have heard to-night and how it has worried you and 
why. Tell her, if she will marry you, you will give up 
drinking and all evil companions, except Jack Leslie, and 
settle down for good and all.” 

*‘Whew!” was all Malcolm’s comment, as he poked 
holes in the dirt with his cane. 

Don’t you really care for her, then?” asked Jack. 

Of course I do — but it’s all so sudden ! Do give a 
fellow breathing-time.” 

** Oh, it’s nothing to me — I shall kill you if any harm 
comes to Lizzie through you — so you can take your 
choice ” 

‘‘Kill me? — harm? Why, old fellow, have you gone 
mad in the full of the moon?” 

“No.” 

“What do you mean, then?” 

“ What I say.” 

“ But— but— ” 

“ But me no buts ! Be a man, and act as a gentleman, 
that is all.” 

“ My dear Jack, you are unnecessarily excited. I am 
very fond of Lizzie— I love her ! Will that satisfy you ? 
I love her, as I hope for mercy ! That idle talk yonder 
showed me all at once the true state of my heart, which 
I can conceal from myself no longer ; and if harm came 
to her, I’d be as ready for the life of the one through 
whom it came as you could be. ’ ’ 


CUARTERIS. 


191 

‘‘Then why not tell her so? except for the poverty, 
she is in every way your equal. Your aunt is not a 
worldly-minded woman, and so you are happy in your 
marriage will not require you to look higher for a wife. 
You love her, yet you cannot give up a few disreputable 
companions and pleasures for her sake I You are weak 
and selfish, Maitland, and I blush for you. Folly ! Weak- 
ness to be wroth with weakness !” he muttered the last to 
himself as he strode along impatiently. Maitland did not 
reply for some little while, then he said, — 

‘‘You are right as ever. Jack. I have been weak and 
selfish, but I’ll be so no more. I’ll write the letter to- 
morrow; will that satisfy you?” 

For answer Jack grasped his hand and wrung it, and 
the rest of the walk they pursued in silence almost, only 
a casual remark interrupting it. 

When they reached the cottage the lights were all out, 
and the moon was near her setting, but at one window 
the curtain had been held aside until the gleam of their 
cigars indicated their approach along the lane, and the 
dimmed light served presently to show the two figures 
approaching the house. When they had disappeared 
under the portico the curtain was dropped, and Lillie 
Maitland sought her pillow with a happy smile upon her 
face. 

Guy’s Christmas was a miserable one ; he could make 
no advance towards understanding Rose’s behaviour, and 
Theo’s undisguised dislike annoyed him exceedingly. He 
began to feel that the castle was no place for him, and to 
look forward anxiously to the time fixed by Lord Gray 
for his departure. 

That was the middle of January. Theo had returned 
to college, the Evergreens had relapsed into its old quie- 
tude, only Lillie’s sweet eyes had a new light in them, 


192 


CHARTER IS. 


and a ring sparkled on her finger where none had been 
before. 

Rose remained unapproachable, and so Guy was glad 
to go, although he left The O’ More, his triumphant rival, 
behind him. 








BOOK SEVENTH. 


CHAPTER 1. 

Guy had gone without an opportunity of asking an 
explanation of Rose’s behaviour, or of letting her know 
his own state of mind. Her farewell to him had been as 
cool and formal as to Lord Gray, and, remembering the 
days when she threw her arms around his neck and begged 
him not to go, although he expected no such childish 
demonstration now, Guy’s heart was heavy enough as he 
took his place beside his patron in the railway-carriage. 
But after he was gone, and there was no help for it. Rose 
began to fear she had jumped too readily to conclusions, 
and would have given much to have been able to recall 
the past. She took herself to task for assuming in the 
first place that Guy’s feelings for her were warmer than 
the familiarly affectionate friendship which had always 
existed between them justified ; he had never told her in 
so many words that he loved her, but then his actions 
had betrayed that love very clearly. However, he had 
never spoken, and so, if he wished to do so, he was 
honorably free to turn elsewhere. 

And had he turned elsewhere? Ought she to have 
acted upon the gossip of a set of gay young men ? Per- 
haps he was sad and unhappy now, thinking about her, 
and wondering what had changed her. Poor Giulio ! she 
I 17 193 


194 


CHARTER IS, 


had been very cruel and unkind, and would make amends, 
so far as lay in her power, by sending him a message 
through one of the earl’s letters. 

Meantime The O’ More was only waiting a fitting 
opportunity to press his suit, which he felt sure would not 
be rejected. He had spoken to Charteris, who told him 
he left Rose entirely free; whom she chose as her husband 
he would welcome as such, unless, of course, her choice 
fell upon a thoroughly unworthy party, in which case he 
would use his influence to disabuse her of her infatua- 
tion ; but such a thing could not possibly happen, he felt 
satisfied. 

So the earl spoke, secretly wondering what had come 
between Conway and Rose, — whether that shabby girl he 
had seen him with had anything to do with it ? He was 
sorry, but as they neither of them had sought his confi- 
dence it was not for him to interfere. Neither did Rose 
go in her perplexity to Margaret. With all a woman’s 
intuition, she saw that the countess was inimical to Guy, 
and believed him to have interfered with Theo’s pros- 
pects, and although there was still the same love between 
them, there could not be the same confidence. 

A friend Rose found in Miss Maitland, the ‘‘Lillie” of 
the Evergreens, and they were much together in their 
walks and rides. Lillie had made Rose her confidante as 
to her engagement with Jack, and had much to say on 
the all-engrossing subject, to which Rose was a sympa- 
thizing listener, though she did not respond by a confi- 
dence of her own perplexity. 

One morning the earl received a letter from Lord Gray, 
stating that he had not been able to start so soon as he 
expected when he left Scotland, and that Guy had taken 
advantage of the delay to visit Fernlie. 

“He is very busy just now,” he added, “and full of 


CHARTER IS. 


195 

plans for the future, by which two people are to be made 
very happy. ’ ’ 

‘^So,” thought Rose, ‘^it is all settled.” She made 
no comment upon the news, but as soon as she could she 
locked herself in her own room, and fought down her 
heart with every weapon her pride could bring to her 
assistance. When the struggle was over and she thought 
pride had conquered, she ordered her horse to be sad- 
dled, and reappeared habited to mount him. She rode 
rapidly and long, and the groom, who followed her, 
expressed it as his opinion that something had happened 
to very seriously upset her ladyship, or she wouldn’t have 
punished Selim so. On her return she passed the Mait- 
lands’ cottage, and Lillie, seeing her coming, ran down to 
the gate to greet her. Had it not been for disappointing 
her friend, and that Selim, so used to stopping at the 
gate, could not be made, without considerable of a 
struggle, to understand that he was not to do so now, she 
would have turned down a lane she came to before she 
reached the Evergreens, and which was a shorter cut to 
the castle. 

Lillie had a great deal to tell. Malcolm was to be 
married early in March, and she was to be bridesmaid. 
He had sent a photograph of his fiancee to his sister, and 
she held it up for Rose’s inspection. It was, as we know, 
a pretty, sweet face, and Rose said so. If she had only 
asked the name, how quickly the clouds that hung over 
her heart would have been dispelled ! She asked no 
questions, however, only assented to its being a sweet 
picture. 

Why, what have you been riding so hard for. Lady 
Rose? Poor Selim is covered with foam.” 

Is he?” replied Rose, for the first time noticing the 
horse, who was moving his head restlessly and working 


196 


CHARTER IS. 


the bit. Well, we must get home, Selim, and you’ll 
have a rest. Good-by, Lillie. ’ ’ 

“Won’t you dismount?” 

But Rose declined doing so, and went on to meet her fate. 

She had not gone far when a figure at the turn of the 
road attracted ber attention, and a second glance told 
her it was The O’More. In a moment she knew what it 
meant, but did not check Selim’s pace until they met. 
With one instant retrospection of the situation, she as 
quickly made up her mind what her reply would be. If 
Guy was “making two people happy,” why should she 
not do the same ? She had liked the man who was walk- 
ing towards her very much as a friend ; there was no 
reason why she should not teach herself to love him as 
her husband. 

O’More was more nervous than she by far, when he saw 
her coming so close upon him. She drew Selim in and 
made some commonplace remark about the weather. He 
went up to her, laid his hand on the reins without reply- 
ing to her, and said, — 

“Please send the groom home. Lady Rose, I — I — will 
walk beside you, if you will allow me.” 

For one moment Rose hesitated. If she refused he 
would understand her, and she would be safe ; but why 
need she refuse? He was quick to see the hesitation, 
and glanced up at her with such a startled, beseeching 
look in his eyes, and his face turned so pale, that she acted 
in an instant, and told the groom she would need his 
services no longer. As the man rode off she began play- 
ing with Selim’s silvery mane, and waited. The words 
she expected came at last, manly and to the point, and 
when she reached the castle she was The O’ More’s prom- 
ised wife. 

“ You will be down presently, my darling?” he asked, 


CHARTERIS. 


197 


as, having entered the hall together, she turned towards 
the staircase — “you won’t be any longer than you can 
help?” 

“No, — no longer than I can help,” replied Rose, 
giving him her hand, which he raised to his lips and 
kissed twice passionately before he released it. 

She mounted the first flight, but turned when she reached 
the landing, and looked smilingly down upon him stand- 
ing where she had left him; then, kissing her fingers lightly 
to him, she disappeared along the passage leading to her 
own room. 

Once safe in the sanctity of that refuge, if the man who 
was walking up and down the drawing-room thinking of 
her, and so restless in his great happiness that he could 
do nothing but roam about whistling snatches of operas 
and counting the minutes until she reappeared, could 
have seen the change which came over her, how far, far 
differently the world would have looked to him ! 

For the light of excitement faded from her eyes, the 
carnations from her cheeks, and she stood there wringing 
her hands together while her white teeth were drawing 
crimson drops from the tender lips. Wringing her hands 
and moaning over the rashness that had brought her into 
this miserable situation from which in honor she could see 
no salvation. She shivered in her misery, and crouched 
down on the rug before the fire and remained, she knew 
not how long, gazing into the coals, but seeing nothing. 
At length the voice of Lady Margaret, speaking to some 
one in the hall, roused her, and she was surprised to find 
how late it was. She rang for her maid and began to 
prepare for dinner, as it was so late she would not care to 
dress again. She wore the blue silk which she had on 
that evening at Worthington, and Guy’s gold ornaments. 
The maid noticed nothing particular in her lady’s man- 
17* 


198 


CI/ARTERJS, 


ner, for before she rang Rose had schooled herself to 
calmness. When she was dressed she descended to the 
drawing-room, and seeing no one there, walked over to one 
of the windows and stood in its deep embrasure, the cur- 
tain falling behind her. But she was not alone, as she 
supposed, for O’ More had thrown himself upon a lounge 
at the other end of the apartment and had seen her enter. 
He followed her, as he had a right, and, throwing back 
the curtain, stood at her side. She was resting her fore- 
head against the window-sash, and though she saw him 
beside her, made no movement. He put his arm around 
her, and, turning her face up to him, kissed her lips; a 
shudder passed over her, still she did not resist ; she knew 
she belonged to him now, not to herself ; but as he drew 
her more closely towards him and murmured words of 
loving tenderness in her ear, she rested her head upon 
his breast and gave way to her overladen heart by a 
flood of tears. 


CHAPTER II. 

When the earl and countess were informed of Rose’s 
engagement to The O’ More, they were considerably as- 
tonished, but as it had been their rule never to interfere, 
and they had received no confidence in the matter, they, 
of course, made no remarks. That very day, Charteris 
had begun a letter to Guy, and he hesitated about telling 
him the news ; he began to do so, then changed his mind 
and allowed the letter to go with the unfinished sentence 
scratched over. 

Meantime Guy, finding Lord Gray would not leave 


CHARTERIS. 


199 

England until the middle of March, and having no desire 
to return to Scotland only to endure again the pain of 
seeing his rival’s happiness, busied himself about Fern- 
lie, where the Lowrys still were. Malcolm Maitland’s 
engagement to Lizzie being told him, he joined with the 
lover in pressing an early marriage, and suggested that it 
should take place at Fernlie, before he and Lord Gray 
left. There was no reasonable objection to be made, and 
so it was arranged. 

An invitation was, of course, sent to Scotland, and 
Mrs. Maitland and Lillie prepared for their journey to 
London. A few days before she left, the latter came over 
to see Rose, full of the one subject so important to her 
uneventful life. She had had a little note informing her 
of Rose’s engagement, and had offered her congratulations 
as in duty bound ; had seen Rose several times since, 
and thought that for a newly-engaged young lady, before 
whom the world lay painted in such brilliant colors, she 
was very quiet, and, if it were not utterly impossible, she 
would say, sad. But when she asked Rose if she were 
^^PPy> answer was so positively ^^yes that she was 
forced to be satisfied and keep her wonderment to her- 
self. 

So now she was going to London to be bridesmaid at 
Malcolm’s wedding, and wasn’t it good and kind of Mr. 
Conway ? 

“ What?” asked Rose, starting at the familiar name. 

Why, to have the wedding at Fernlie, his beautiful 
place, you know,” replied Lillie. 

** No — I don’t know what you mean, Lillie. I did not 
know your brother and — and Mr. Conway were inti- 
mate.” 

Neither were they until a little while ago. You know 
Lizzie’s parents were — well, were very poor, through her 


200 


CHARTERIS. 


father’s losing all he had invested in some shares that 
went up or down, or something, — then his publishers 
failed, — and then, he wrote a play, and his health failed, 
and no one wanted his play, until the manager of Co- 
vent Garden took it — and it was a success,” etc., all 
through what the reader already knows. Rose listened 
with a strange dread fastening at her heart, and when the 
story was finished, managed to ask, — 

‘‘And Lizzie — has she a sister?” 

“No,” replied Lillie, “she is an only child. But, 
good God ! Lady Rose, what is the matter?” 

For Rose Forrester had fallen off her chair and lay 
upon the floor in a dead faint. 

The wedding at Fernlie was a delightful affair to all 
interested. Lillie and Jack were as happy as two mortals 
could be, and their felicitous state was only surpassed by 
that of the bride and groom. 

Although several letters had come from Scotland, no 
word had come to Guy of Rose’s engagement, and it was 
from Lillie’s lips he heard it. They were standing at the 
front door, watching the carriage which contained the 
happy couple disappear down the road, when Lillie said, — 
“ This time to-morrow you will be watching aunty and 
me over the same road. Shall I carry your best wishes 
and congratulations to our bonny baroness?” 

“Congratulations?” queried Jack Leslie thoughtlessly. 
“Why, have you not heard of the engagement?” she 
asked in surprise. Fortunately she was looking at her 
lover, and so did not see how pale Guy turned. He clung 
to the iron railing, while his head swam and his lips 
turned white and dry. There was a buzzing in his ears 
so that the voices of the two standing next to him sounded 
a mile away, and though he heard their voices he had no 
idea of what they said. Presently there was a silence. 


CHARTERIS. 


201 


and he found himself alone. Leslie had caught sight of 
the agony in his face, and had drawn Lillie quietly away. 
But Jack was afraid to leave him alone; they had only 
gone out of his sight, not where they could not see him. 
Anxiously they watched him turn and stagger, rather than 
walk, into the house and up the stairs with the heavy step 
of an old man. He reached his room, locked the door, 
and then there was a fall upon the floor. When they 
forced the door and entered the apartment, he was lying 
just where he had fallen, totally insensible. 

The next day he left England. 


CHAPTER III. 

It was September before Guy again saw the shores of 
England. In the spring Lord Gray found he would be 
obliged to go to Constantinople, thence probably to St. 
Petersburg. As soon as they arrived in the old imperial 
city, his patron gave Guy a month in which to visit his 
mountain home, and thither he gladly betook himself. 

What a contrast was that peaceful sylvan scene to the 
turmoil and bustle, the babble and dirt, of the Turkish 
town ! How like an old friend seemed each well-re- 
membered landmark! Inside the monastery there was 
little change. His two old friends were there, and happy 
to greet once more the child of their affections. Father 
Anselmo looked rather more broken than when he was 
there last, Guy thought, but the face was as glorious in its 
angelic beauty as when first he remembered it ; more 
beautiful, perhaps, with the reflection of the coming glory 
of the heavenly rest to which he was drawing near. Guy 
1 * 


202 


CHARTERIS, 


spent two quietly happy weeks at the monastery, and 
seemed to renew his childhood. He seemed to have left 
his manhood, with all worldly cares, dreams, plans, and 
aspirations, all disappointments and sorrows, outside the 
walls, and once more he was a boy, following Father An- 
selmo about in his daily avocations, or curled up on a 
bench in the organ-loft dreaming vague dreams as the 
organist drew weird and solemn harmonies or soft, low 
melodies from the instrument. 

When the time for his departure came and he had taken 
leave of all. Father Anselmo followed him out to the 
monastery gate. Guy bade his old friend farewell sadly, 
for he felt it was probably a last leave-taking. The monk, 
too, seemed to have the same thought, for the hand he 
laid upon Guy’s shoulder trembled more than age would 
have caused it to, and his eyes were dim. 

‘‘ God bless you, my boy, in all things, and keep you ! 
May you be happy and successful ; but oh, Guy, remember 
that the world is not everything ; forget not the hereafter 
in the present, and that it shall profit nothing to have 
gained all things here if your soul is lost in eternity. I 
never expect these old eyes to rest upon your face again, 
my son, but you are never forgotten in my prayers; and re- 
member, if the world frowns, — for it is a fickle mistress, — if 
your high ambitions are disappointed, if friends turn cold 
who now are seemingly sincere, your home is always here. 
The monastery gates are always open to you, and in its 
calm retreat your wounded spirit may find its balm.” 

As he finished speaking the old man took him in his 
arms and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks. 
Guy could not speak, but he raised the monk’s hands to 
his lips and turned away with a gesture of farewell. A little 
distance down the mountain he paused and looked back. 
Once more the setting sun was illuminating the gray stone 


CHARTER IS. 


203 


walls, bringing out in strong relief the legend cut above 
the gate, and flooding the white robes of the old man 
who stood in it with a golden glory. Guy waved his 
hand, and turned to continue his walk. 

Before him lay the Adriatic in the distance, all impurpled 
and golden with the last rays of the setting sun ; a mist 
was rising among the mountains and the hills covered 
with their olives and vines, and here and there was heard 
the tinkle of a bell or the call of the herdsman collecting 
his flocks. How little he thought, as he drank in the 
beauty of the scene, under what circumstances he would 
look upon it again, or what the near future had in store 
for him ! 

He had not written often to his friend, the earl. If he 
could he would gladly have broken off all connection 
with the past, and flown to the shores of the New World 
for the Lethean waters. But that seemed impossible, and 
here he was on the eve of returning to the scenes of his 
happiness, the associations of a time so full of hope. 

It was September when he again found himself in Lon- 
don, and almost the first acquaintance he met was The 
O’ More. He was just leaving his club as Guy entered 
(they were fellow-members), and stopped to speak in the 
vestibule. The two men had never liked each other, and 
now Guy felt as if he hated him. But there was nothing 
of the, triumphant rival in O’ More’s manner during the 
few moments they were together. On the contrary, his 
usual bonhommie was all gone, his eyes were heavy, and 
his whole manner preoccupied and sad. Guy was at a 
loss to account for it. 

The next visit he paid, on leaving the club, was to 
Malcolm Maitland’s snug little villa, in St. John’s Wood. 
There he was sure of a kind and sincere welcome, and of 
being made at home at once. There, too, he would be 


204 


CHARTERIS. 


apt to hear news he longed for yet dreaded, and would 
not be obliged to ask any questions to obtain it. 

As he was carried to his destination, he looked out of 
the window of his hansom at the familiar streets, and 
wondered if he was the same man who, a few months ago, 
had returned to England so full of hope and high aspi- 
rations, and if this was the same London. Now his 
heart was dead within him, he had no plan for the future, 
— no hope, — nothing. It mattered not to him whether 
the sun shone or the rain fell, whether peace reigned over 
the world or the nations were arming for the strife, noth- 
ing could affect him any more. 

He had been expecting to hear of the time for the 
marriage of the Baroness Worthington, and wondered 
why it was delayed so long; but even that intelligence 
could have no pain for him now, he thought. 

Was it the same Guy who, an hour after, sprang into 
the cab with such an elastic step, and waved a joyous 
good-by to the Maitlands, telling the driver to carry him 
back to his hotel as fast as his horses’ feet could move ? 

Yes, it was the same. 


CHAPTER IV. 

It was some time before Lady Rose could be recovered 
from her fainting fit, and when she did come to herself 
she was seriously ill. The O’ More had intended leaving 
for Ireland the next week ; now he lingered until Rose 
could see him, and he could be sure she was getting well. 
That time, however, was long coming ; not that Rose was 
seriously ill so long, but she put off the interview as often 


CHAR TER IS. 


205 


as she could find a pretext for doing so, and she kept 
closely to her own apartments for days after she was well 
enough to leave them. This singular behavior puzzled 
Margaret not a little. Indeed, the young girl, heretofore 
so open and outspoken, so bright and happy, had been 
a puzzle to the countess for some time in her changed 
demeanor. But when day followed day, and she still 
persisted in avoiding her lover, Margaret began to be un- 
easy, and fear perhaps her mind was affected. 

The earl had been obliged to go to London some time 
before Rose was declared convalescent, and he expected 
the ladies to follow him as soon as the younger one was 
able to travel. He wrote now, urging their coming, and 
Margaret was anxious to obey him, but Rose could not be 
induced to call herself well. Margaret was almost at her 
wits’ ends, when matters were brought to a head by The 
O’ More. He had been humble enough and sued for 
Rose’s consent to see him, until he was wearied by her 
persistent refusal ; and now urgent business called him to 
Ireland and he could not delay. 

He wrote a note to Rose, asking once more to see her, 
telling her again in manly words of his love for her — and 
reminding her that she had promised to be his wife, and 
therefore he had a right to demand an interview. He 
must leave for Ireland that night, and insisted upon seeing 
her — unless — unless a change had come over her feelings 
and she had ceased to love him, or discovered that she 
never had loved him ! In that case, a word from her 
would be enough — he would not blame her — only his own 
rashness is not waiting until she knew him better — but 
would go away loving her as he could love no other woman 
in this world and praying always for her happiness. 

Lady Margaret was the bearer of this note, and Rose 
read it with streaming eyes, and a wild thought in her 

18 


2o6 


CHARTERIS. 


heart that she could save herself by sending him away. 
But he — had she any right to break his heart because her 
own was broken ? Did she not owe it to him, so noble 
and generous, to immolate herself for his sake whom she 
had deceived so cruelly? 

Ah, Rose — Rose — the punishment of your sin is heavy ! 

Will you write your answer. Rose, or shall I tell him 
you will see him?” asked Margaret, after waiting for some 
time for Rose to speak. The latter sat with the note in 
her hand — her eyes fixed upon the lines ; at the countess’s 
voice, she started and looked up. 

*‘Did you speak. Lady Margaret?” she asked. 

‘‘Yes, Rose — I am waiting for your answer.” 

“My answer? — Oh, yes — my answer! Oh, God help 
me, how can I answer it I” She threw her arms up over 
her head wildly, then buried her face in her hands and 
rocked herself to and fro. 

“My poor darling I” exclaimed Margaret, kneeling 
beside her and gathering the quivering form closely into 
her motherly arms. “ My poor darling, let me help you 
— tell me what it is.” 

“No — no — no!” replied Rose wildly, pushing her 
away from her. “ No one can help me — I cannot tell you 
— only go ! leave me, please — for God’s sake, or I’ll go 
mad !” 

Lady Margaret rose from her knees and stood for a few 
seconds looking at the bowed form before her, then she 
picked up the note which had fallen to the floor. The 
rustling of the paper caught Rose’s ear, and she looked up. 

“ Give it to me,” she cried, “give it to me ! He must 
be answered, mustn’t he?” 

“Yes,” said Margaret. 

“Tell him,” said Rose, rising to her feet, steadying 
herself by the table, and speaking very slowly, “ to give 


CHARTERIS. 


207 


me just half an hour, and then he shall have his answer. 
Let me be alone for that time.” She turned as she fin- 
ished speaking and looked out of the window, nor did 
she move until Lady Margaret left the room and closed 
the door behind her. 

Half an hour after the following note was put into The 
O’ More’s hands : 

Go — forget me if you can — forgive me if you will — 
but go ! I have been very wicked, and deserve your scorn 
and that of all good people. For I have lied to you in 
letting you think I loved you. I never did — when you 
held me in your arms and rained your kisses on my lips 
and cheeks I fairly loathed you ! But I thought I was 
stronger than I am, and that I could carry out the lie to 
the end — I cannot. Go and forget me. You are noble 
and good and true ; and some woman worthy of your 
goodness and truth will bless your home yet — I am not 
that woman.” 

' As soon as The O’ More left. Rose was anxious to,, get 
to London, and there was no further delay in leaving 
Scotland. The season was at its height when they arrived, 
and there was to be a drawing-room the very next week, 
at which she must be presented, if at all this season, as it 
was to be the last. 

At first, after breaking her engagement. Rose was fever- 
ishly excitable for some time, and dashed into all kinds 
of amusements with a zest she had never shown before. 
The drawing-room passed, and after it the name of the 
Baroness Worthington was on all lips and London ‘Taved” 
about her. But the excitement was passing off, and poor 
Rose was beginning to feel a remorse of conscience as to 
her treatment of her lover. The O’ More had been so gen- 
erous and gentle, so manly and so loving, she felt very 
guilty ; still, it was better the blow should come early — 


2o8 


CHAR TER IS. 


that he should know before marriage, and suffer from the 
knowledge, rather than find out after, what would have 
killed him. Thus Rose tried to reason with herself, and, 
gradually growing calmer, took her place in society with 
her former quiet dignity. 

Many a noble and titled name, many a princely fortune, 
was laid at her feet j many a noble heart swelled with hope 
of winning her — in vain. She had but one answer for all. 

Up to the period of her majority, she had resided al- 
most entirely with her guardian and his wife ; but now 
she was beginning to be more self-reliant, and having 
secured a pleasant dafne de compagnie she visited her Irish 
estates, and after spending a month or two at Worthing- 
ton in quiet retirement that summer, set about regulating 
her household at the Towers, where she was when Guy 
returned to England. 

Such in substance was the intelligence the Maitlands 
imparted to Guy during that eventful visit to St. John’s 
Wood. 

He had found a letter from Charteris waiting for him 
at his club, which he pocketed unread before going to St. 
John’s Wood. On his way back to his hotel, he tore the 
envelope hastily open and devoured the contents. 

The earl pressed him to come to Devonshire as soon as 
possible ; there were several visitors at the Manor, as well 
as at the Towers, and Rochdale would be at home — and 
every one was most anxious to see him. 

Every one ? Yes, every one — for there was a line at the 
end of the letter worth all the rest ; and it ran thus : 

‘‘ Welcome to England and home ! — Rose.” 

Need we say it was not many hours before Guy was on 
his way to Charteris ? 

\ 


CHAR TER IS. 


209 


CHAPTER V. 

It was evening when Guy arrived at Charteris. He 
was expected, and as soon as he gave his name the ser- 
vant conducted him to a room ready prepared for him, 
where the earl hastened to welcome him. 

It had been too dark to see the park as he drove through 
it, or the river, or any of the outward beauties of the 
place; yet as soon as he crossed the threshold into the 
wide tessellated hall, and glanced around him, a strange 
sensation came over him — one of those experiences which 
are almost indescribable. 

The scene was familiar with a fleeting, dreamy, far-off 
familiarity that he could not hold long enough to place: 
as if he had passed through one of those instants of sus- 
pension of all thought or idea, — if such a state can be, — 
and returned to himself to feel that his present experience 
was a repetition of something gone through before — 
though when or how he knew not. The same dreamy 
feeling followed him up the broad staircase and through 
part of the upper halls, but when he turned into a side 
passage he lost it in a measure, and the room into which 
he was ushered had nothing in it to recall it. It was in 
fact in a part of the house which in Clare’s lifetime had 
been closed, and Guy had probably never set foot in it 
before. 

There were assembled in the drawing-room, not only 
the guests of the Manor, but those also of the Towers, 
with several neighboring families. Our old friends the 
rector and Mrs. Halstead, and Dr. and Mrs. Bonnycastle, 
18* 


210 


CHARTER IS. 


were there — a little older in face and fuller in figure per- 
haps — with many gray hairs where once there were but 
few or none — in all other things unchanged. 

With the strange faces we have little or nothing to do. 
Rose was there, and hanging over her in most lover-like 
fashion was Theodore, Lord Rochdale. She had just re- 
plied to something he had said, and held out her hand for 
a flower he was playing with, which he kissed before pre- 
senting to her — when a movement near the door caused 
her to raise her eyes to meet those of Giulio Conway 
fixed upon her as he stood on the threshold beside the 
earl. There was a reproach in the glance he gave her 
she did not understand, as he advanced into the room to 
pay his respects to Lady Straithness. Margaret was at 
the far end of the apartment and had not noticed his en- 
trance at first, but when she did recognize* him she came 
forward very cordially and welcomed him kindly to Eng- 
land and to Charteris. They had met only a few paces 
from the ottoman where Rose and Rochdale were sit- 
ting; the latter came forward to add his greeting to his 
mother’s, but for a few moments Rose did not move — she 
was trembling so she feared to trust herself upon her feet. 
Then just as she was about to rise, she heard the well- 
known voice beside her : 

Has Lady Worthington no welcome for an old 
friend?” 

An unaccountable shyness took possession of her ; she 
could not even raise her eyes as she made some reply, 
which sounded even to her own ears strangely common- 
place and formal. She felt Guy draw back, knew he was 
looking at her in pained bewilderment; but she was 
powerless to break the spell, and would have given worlds 
if she could have found herself alone, so she could relieve 
her heart by a good womanly cry. 


CHAR TER IS. 


2II 


Then the earl came and took Guy away to introduce 
him to the rest of the company, and Rochdale resumed 
his place and his lover-like empressementf but Rose 
scarcely heard what he said or knew what her replies 
were. She did not raise her eyes, yet the very lids 
seemed transparent, and she was conscious of every move- 
ment Giulio Conway made. She heard his voice as in a 
dream, while he answered the questions put to him, and 
gave some detailed account of his travels. She felt that 
his eyes were frequently turned towards her with a mute 
appeal and reproach, yet she could give no reassuring or 
answering glance. 

At last Guy’s indignation seemed roused ; his voice was 
louder, and took another key. She felt that he was angry, 
and this gave her courage to rouse herself. She looked 
up, and found he was standing beside the earl in conver- 
sation with Sir Thomas Findlay, and as she let her eyes 
rest on the tall, lithe, graceful figure, she was struck by a 
resemblance she had never noticed before between him 
and the earl. Their profiles were both turned to her. 
Guy’s long, heavy beard of course concealed a portion of 
his face, and the earl shaved all but his moustache, which 
was quite gray now, though heavy and long ; thus both 
their mouths were concealed, but it was not so much the 
features, for we know Guy had Clare’s eyes and brow, 
but the contour of the figure and the pose. As she looked, 
Guy, who had been threading his fingers through his 
beard, turned towards the earl and tossed back his hair 
from his forehead with a gesture she had seen Straithness 
use time and again. So intent was she in noting these 
resemblances that her eyes rested long and fixedly upon 
Guy. Either he felt, by that subtle magnetism we have 
all experienced, that she was looking at him, or he chose 
that time to notice what she was doing. Suddenly he 


212 


CHARTERIS, 


turned and looked full at her. Their eyes met for the 
second time that evening. There was a reproachful 
questioning in his which caused her to lower hers, and 
sent the warm blood up over neck and forehead. Pro- 
voked at herself, she frowned impatiently and turned 
away. 

Just then a young lady, followed by Margaret, hurried 
up to the earl. Oh, my lord,” she exclaimed, ‘‘we 
have made out such a nice plan for amusement, and it 
only wants your consent to be carried out. Say you’ll 
give it. Now, please do.” 

“My dear Miss Emma, if you will tell me what the 
plan is, I dare say my consent will not be withheld ; but 
I certainly cannot give it till I know.” 

“ Oh, didn’t I tell you ! Well, they are to be just like 
Lady Flora Lee’s, and there’s a room next the billiard- 
room which will do for a stage, — only there is no com- 
munication with it, — but Mr. Jerningham says it is only 
a lath and plaster partition which can be easily knocked 
down. So please say yes. Lord Straithness; Lady Margaret 
approves. ’ ’ 

“But, my dear young lady, you haven’t yet told me why 
the tearing down of my ancestral walls is so imperatively 
necessary all of a sudden.” 

“Why, private theatricals, of course; don’t you re- 
member how nice it was at Lady Flora’s? It’s so fashion- 
able now to have them, and they are so pleasant ! Now 
do say yes, my lord.” 

“Yes, with all my heart, so far as the theatricals are 
concerned; but why must the old walls be torn down? 
Why not make the stage in the billiard-room?” 

“That would leave very little room for the audience; 
besides, Mr. Jerningham says that passage that leads along 
to the smoking-room is three or four steps higher than the 


CHARTERIS. 


213 

billiard-room, and the room we want is on a level with 
that passage, and Lord Rochdale says ’ ’ 

“Well, as you seem to have it all arranged, I suppose 
your asking me was simply a fagon de parlerV 

“ Of course we could do nothing without asking you, 
we could only talk and plan. Lady Margaret said she 
knew you would consent.” 

“ So you are one of the conspirators. Pearl?” 

“I could see no objection, Guy; indeed, I think it 
will be very pleasant.” 

“So do I. We must try and outdo even Lady Flora 
Lee. So I give you carte blanche, and the interfering 
wall shall disappear to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, my lord, how kind ! Is it not delightful, Mr. 
Conway? Did you ever take part in private theatricals?” 
The young lady turned towards Guy. 

“Oh, yes. Miss Everson, several times.” 

“And you can act?” 

“ A second Kean, — Macready, — Booth, — though I say 
it, who should not. Modesty would restrain me, but a 
regard for the truth forces me to speak it at all times and 
in all places.” 

“ Oh, I know it is true. I need not have asked. You 
look as if you could act a part admirably.” 

“Rather a dubious compliment, 'Miss Everson,” said 
Guy. 

“Why? Oh, I didn’t mean anything, and you know 
I didn’t.” 

Some further badinage passed between them, all of 
which Rose from her ottoman could hear. At last some 
one asked her to sing, and she rose and went to the 
piano. 

“ Where is your flute, Guy?” asked the earl. 

“Up-stairs, my lord, but please don’t ask for it to- 


214 


CHARTERIS. 


night. I’m not the vein.’ ” He spoke in low tones, as 
Rose had begun to sing. 

‘‘Well, we’ll excuse it to-night, but no longer. And 
now, Miss Emma, who are to compose your company, 
and what is the play to be?” 

“Oh, we have thought of several: ‘Still Waters,’ and 
‘Rosedale,’ and ‘She Stoops to Conquer,’ and ‘The 
Hunchback.’ We haven’t made up our minds yet. Mr. 
Jerningham thinks ‘ The Hunchback’ too much for ama- 
teurs to undertake. I wanted it to be ‘Plot and Passion,’ 
but he thinks that as objectionable as ‘ The Hunchback,’ 
but I like it ; only there are but two lady characters. Mr. 
J erningham ’ ’ 

“Mr. Jerningham is stage-manager?” asked the earl 
demurely, with a twinkle in his eye. 

Miss Everson blushed slightly, but continued : “Oh, 
Mr. Jerningham knows all about private theatricals. He 
has played so often, and then he goes to the theatre so 
much, and knows Boucicault and — and ” 

“Oh, well, I presume he is competent. At any rate 
you have my best wishes for your success, and you may 
command me in all things,” said the earl, turning away 
with Margaret. Rose had finished her song, and was 
leaving the piano. 

“Oh, isn’t he just as good as he can be ! Oh, Lady 
Rose, you’ll take part, won’t you? Come over here and 
let us talk about it. It is perfectly delighful !” 

Rose, thus called upon, could not but join the group, 
which had lost the earl, but gained Mr. Jerningham, who 
approached to learn the success of Miss Everson’s medi- 
ation. 

“So his lordship consents, I judge by your face. Miss 
Everson,” said Mr. Jerningham. 

“Consents? Indeed he does; he is the dearest man. 


CHARTERIS. 


215 

—a perfect — you know what I mean, — it’s very slangy, I 
know, but it’s just the word.” 

‘‘A perfect brick, I suppose you mean,” said Guy. 

Yes, that’s the word, I knew it was something: now 
isn’t he?” exclaimed Miss Everson. 

‘‘We all agree upon that verdict. Miss Everson,” said 
Mr. Jerningham. “ Shall we call the culprit over here, 
and inform him of it?” 

“What play have you decided upon. Miss Everson?” 
asked Rose. 

“ Oh, none, as yet; nor the players. You’ll help, won’t 
you?” 

“ Oh, yes, if I can.” 

“You can, of course. Here’s Mr. Conway willing, and 
Mr. Jerningham, and I. Now we must hunt up some 
more. Come, Mr. Jerningham, let us beat up recruits. 
Lord Straithness says it must surpass Lady Flora’s affair. 
Au revoir, friends ; remember you must be on hand when 
called for. By the by,” she continued, turning back, 
“if we play ‘Still Waters,’ and can get one more gentle- 
man, our company is made up. Mr. Conway, you’d make 
a good Captain Hawkesly, and Lady Rose for the Aunt ; 
but we’ll see about it.” And the gay couple turned away, 
leaving Rose and Guy to a most uncomfortable tete-a-tete. 

“Do you find much time for practice now. Lady 
Worthington ?” 

“ Oh, yes, it is such a pleasure, and we generally find 
time for that, you know ’ ’ 

“ Conway, you haven’t forgotten how to sing, have 
you?” asked Lord Rochdale, joining them. 

“No, my — Theo, I have not, but ” 

“Oh, no excuse, Mr. Conway!” exclaimed a lady, who 
was passing at the moment and heard the question. “ ‘ But 
me no buts. ’ I have heard of your singing, and always 


2i6 


CHAR TER IS. 


wanted so much to have an opportunity of enjoying the 
treat I know you can give us. Now don’t refuse, must 
he, Lady Rose?” 

‘‘Mr. Conway is always obliging,” replied Rose, play- 
ing with her fan. 

Guy looked at her, but she did not raise her eyes. 
“Then I cannot refuse,” said he, going towards the 
piano. 

He played a short prelude, and then struck a few chords 
that caused Rose to start and color violently. It was the 
beginning of a song he had composed some years before, 
and sang under her window one night at Straithness. It 
was the same night. Rose remembered, on which they had 
talked of vicarious sacrifices, and of the different degrees 
of endurance possessed by men and women. 

Guy sang : 

The winds are all hushed and the moon is high, 

Like a queen on her silver throne ; 

Tranquil and dusk the woodlands lie, 

Scarcely a cloud sails over the sky ; 

None are awake save the stars and I, 

Sleepest thou still, mine own ? 

The song of the nightingale stirs the air. 

And the breath of the brier is blown ; 

Come forth in thy beauty beyond compare. 

I’ll clasp thee close and I’ll call thee fair, 

And I’ll kiss off the dew from thy golden hair; 

Sleepest thou still, mine own? 

As he finished singing he turned around on the stool, 
but Rose was at the other end of the room speaking to 
Lady Margaret. 

“That was very sweet, Mr. Conway; I never heard 
the words before,” said Lady Clara Leicester. “Do you 
know the author ?’ ’ 


CHAR TER IS. 


217 


'‘Yes, very well, Lady Clara; he is a friend of mine.” 

" And the air, so soft and sweet, just suited for a sere- 
nade. Is that original, too?” 

"Yes; the words and air have the same author, but—” 

" Oh, don’t get up !” exclaimed her ladyship ; “ please 
sing some more. Your voice is a very rich baritone ; just 
the kind of voice I delight in.” 

So Guy turned to the piano again, and sang some words 
of L. E. L.’s, set to a simple air; 

" Ah ! tell me not that memory 
Sheds gladness o'er the past ; 

What is recall’d by faded flowers, 

Save that they did not last ? 

Were it not better to forget, 

Than but remember with regret? 

“ Look back upon your hours of youth, 

What were your early years 
But scenes of childish cares and griefs ? 

And say not childish tears 
Are nothing ; at that time they were 
More than the young heart well could bear. 

" Go on to riper years, and look 
Upon your sunny spring, 

And from the wrecks of former years 
What will your memory bring? 

Affections wasted, pleasures fled. 

And hopes now numbered with the dead." 

"I am very much obliged, Mr. Conway,” said Lady 
Clara, as Guy finished. "I should beg for another, only 
it is so late, and I see Lady Rose is mustering her forces 
for a return to the Towers. I suppose we will see you 
across the river to-morrow?” 

"It is probable,” replied Guy. 

"Yes, you must come. Good-night. Yes, Lady Rose, 
I’m ready.” 

K 


19 


2i8 


CHAI^TEjRIS. 


Rose had joined them, intending to ask Lady Clara if 
it were not time to think of getting home. She then 
turned to Guy and held out her hand timidly. 

“ Good-night, Mr. Conway. I shall be glad to welcome 
you to the Towers as soon as you find it convenient to 
cross the bridge.” 

Words of course, but they cost Rose a painful effort, 
and were said in such an indifferent manner that Guy 
was angered more than ever, and merely bowed his 
thanks, as he held her hand for a moment, then let it 
drop. 

When Rose found herself in her own room she dis- 
missed her maid very soon, and then sat at the window 
lost in thought. She was angry at herself for the silly 
part she had played, and for hurting Guy’s feelings so 
deeply. She told herself she could have been reserved, 
without being so icily cold. What must he think of her? 
How did he feel? Those songs were for her, she knew; 
she had never heard him sing the serenade in company 
before. It was the nearest approach he had ever made to- 
wards playing the lover, and the nights when he had sung it 
to her at Straithness had been su.ch blissful ones! As she 
sat there thinking, she imagined she saw a figure approach 
the house from the bridge; yes, there it was moving under 
the trees. Her heart told her it was Guy, and she did 
not need the sight she had of him a moment after, as he 
stood where the moonlight fell upon him, to convince her. 


CHARTERIS. 


219 


CHAPTER VI. 

The next morning after breakfast, Margaret asked Guy 
if he did not wish to walk around the grounds. Roch- 
dale joined them, and Guy was struck with the improve- 
ment the last year had wrought in the boy. He was not 
only more manly in appearance but in mind, and had lost 
that flippancy of manner which had formerly character- 
ized him. They walked slowly down through the park 
under the grand old trees, then around the house to the 
terrace at the back. As he stood on the terrace and 
looked down the slight declivity to the river, the same 
dreamy sensation of having been there before came over 
him. He tried to shake it off, but could not, and it was 
only by an effort that was actually painful he could listen 
and make suitable replies to Lady Margaret’s remarks. 
They took the path leading to the bridge, and Rochdale 
led them a little farther down to show Guy his new boat 
and boat-house. The latter was built a considerable dis- 
tance down the river, very far from the site of the old 
one, and Theo’s boat was a perfect little gem. 

‘^Do you know, Conway,” said he, springing into the 
light craft and rocking it to and fro, “that father will 
not step foot in the ‘Sea-foam,’ nor let mamma nor Rose 
do so either. It is a real shame when she is such a beauty, 
and ‘ walks the waters like a thing of life !’ But you’ll go 
with me, I hope.” 

“ Certainly I will, my lord,” replied Guy. 

“Then this afternoon we’ll take a sail,” said Theo, 
coming out of the house. 


220 


CHAR TER IS. 


‘^Some day, Theo dear, you will understand why your 
father refuses to allow us to share your boating pleasures, 
and will take no part in them himself ; he has good 
reasons,” said Lady Margaret. *‘And now,” she con- 
tinued, “let us return to the bridge, and show Giulio the 
way to the Towers. We will find Rose and her friends 
through breakfast by this time.” 

When they reached the middle of the bridge, they 
paused to look down the river. It was a very pretty 
view, the trees on the further side diminished in number 
so that a glimpse of the sea could be had through their 
leafy covers. Looking up the river, the view was more 
circumscribed, as the bend was very abrupt only a short 
distance above ; and as he turned in that direction again 
the bewildering dreaminess came over Guy, and he shook 
himself impatiently. 

“The air off the water is chilly this morning,” said 
Lady Margaret, drawing her breakfast-cape more closely 
about her; “I am sorry you did not bring your tartan, 
Giulio.” 

“That would have been too heavy. Lady Margaret,” 
he replied ; “I do not think I shall suffer from the cold.” 
But he shivered again, and drew his coat closer together 
and buttoned it across the breast. 

They found the party at the Towers collected in Rose’s 
morning-room, and the matutinal salutations were hardly 
over before Miss Everson returned to the subject they had 
been discussing by exclaiming, — 

“Oh, Mr. Conway, the play is decided upon ; it is to 
be ‘Rosedale,’ and you are to be Elliot Gray; Mr. Jer- 
ningham, Matthew Leigh; Sir Thomas Findlay will be 
Colonel May ; and we have still to find some one who 
can act the villain, and that farmer — I forget his name. 
Major Gillette says he will provide the soldiers, — real 


CHARTERIS. 


221 


soldiers, you know, — and then we must find people for the 
gipsies. As for the ladies. Lady Rose is Rosa Leigh; 
Lady Clara is to be Lady Adela Gray; I’m Lady Flor- 
ence, and I don’t know who we can get to take the part 
of Tabitha Stork, and that unkempt servant-girl.” 

The young lady paused to take breath, and Guy re- 
plied, “I fear, Miss Everson, you will be disappointed 
in Elliot Gray; I ” 

“You don’t mean to say you won’t take the part?” 

“ By no means ; only that I will not do justice to it.” . 

“Oh, I’m not afraid of that. Of course you have seen 
the play ?” 

“Yes, I have seen, while in New York, the author in 
the part of Elliot, hence my hesitancy,” he replied, 
glancing at Rose, who was looking at him, but who turned 
away as soon as his eye met hers. Rochdale at that 
moment threw himself into an easy-chair at her side, and 
began to talk to her in a low tone. Guy bit his lips and 
turned away. 

“In New York ! why, didn’t Dion Boucicault write 
it?” exclaimed Miss Everson. 

“Dear me, no, Emma!” exclaimed Lady Clara, “it 
was written by an American, a Mr. Wallace ” 

“ Wallack, Lady Clara, pardon me,” interrupted Guy; 
“ Lester Wallack, of New York, one of the most finished 
actors on the American stage, — although an Englishman 
by birth, — particularly in melodramatic characters.” 

“Oh, well!” returned Miss Everson, “Dion Bouci- 
cault has written so many plays, that one may be pardoned 
for being ignorant of what he has not vfritttn” 

They still continued to discuss the play and the players, 
while Rochdale sat by Rose and spoke only to her, and 
then only in so low a tone no one but she could hear a 
word. Rose began to be annoyed at his persistence, and 

19* 


222 


CHAR TER IS. 


colored with impatience. But Guy, who was furtively 
watching her, attributed her emotion to other causes, and 
his heart sank within him. 

Miss Everson could think of nothing, talk of nothing, 
but the play, and finally the company adjourned to the 
Manor, to see what progress the carpenters had made in 
the demolition of the wall. They found the opening 
made and the room thick with the dust and dirt. The 
billiard-tables were protected by their coverings, and 
removing these they began to knock the balls about under 
pretense of teaching the ladies the game. Several of the 
earl’s guests joined them, and, ignoring the dirt, they 
spent a merry morning. 

After lunch Rochdale reminded Guy of his promise to 
sail with him, and the latter, unwilling as he was to a 
tdte-a-tSte with the young man whom he felt he was be- 
ginning to hate, could find no excuse to refuse. How- 
ever, they had a very pleasant sail, setting aside Guy’s 
gloomy feelings; he talked to Theo about his travels, and 
made himself as agreeable as possible; but all the time 
he felt that there was an air of concealed triumph about 
the boy which made him long to take him by the collar 
and thrash him or kick him. He noticed that Theo 
called him simply Conway,” never “Giulio,” as in the 
old times, and he responded to the change by a cold “my 
lord” or “Rochdale.” 

The sail, however, came to an end, and after that the 
earl claimed Guy for the rest of the afternoon, and the 
whole family from the Manor adjourned, in the evening, 
to the Towers to dine. 

Miss Everson and Mr. Jerningham were so fully occu- 
pied by the private theatricals, that they could think of 
nothing else. From discussing the play, they began to 
discuss the novel from which the plot was taken. 


CHARTER IS. 


223 


‘‘Oh, Mr. Conway,” she exclaimed, “have you read 
‘Lady Lee’s Widowhood’ ?” 

“No, Miss Everson, I have not.” 

“Well, you must read it at once; it is a most charming 
tale, and there is one character in it, oh ! he is just 
splendid !” 

“‘A perfect brick,’ I suppose,” suggested Guy quietly. 

“Yes, he is; you may laugh if you choose. Onslow, I 
mean ; Lady Clara, just think, neither of these stupid men 
know about him ! He is a man with a mystery ! Nobody 
knows anything about him; he is only a subaltern, — a 
sergeant, I think, — and a young lady falls in love with 
him.” 

“ You say nobody knows who he is. Does he know him- 
self?” asked Mr. Jerningham. 

Guy glanced at the speaker, but he seemed to have no 
covert intention in the remark. 

“Why, of course he does; was there ever a person who 
did not?” asked the young lady, laughing. “Just im- 
agine any one knowing nothing about themselves ; how 
queer they must feel, particularly when with other people 
who have natural family ties ! How I should pity any- 
body I knew so situated.” 

Guy pulled at his beard with nervous force, and at 
length found courage to glance at Rose. She was playing 
with her fan, but her color was high and her teeth were 
caught over her lower lip. Presently Rochdale broke the 
silence: 

“ Such a person as you describe is deserving of every 
one’s pity. Miss Everson, for what has he not lost in 
being deprived of all natural ties so early as to retain no 
memory of them ! But such a person ought to be very 
careful how he intrudes upon others, or forces himself 
into intimate relations with them.” 


224 


CHAR TER IS, 


A hand was laid heavily on Rochdale’s shoulder as he 
finished speaking, and the young man turned to meet the 
stern, reproving eyes of his father fixed upon him. 

“Shame on you, Rochdale, for such sentiments! I 
blush that a son of mine should hold them for a moment. 
The words of the poet express the true philosophy, ‘ The 
rank is but the guinea stamp, the man’s the gowd for a’ 
that.’ Remember that, and never express such narrow- 
minded opinions again. Well, Miss Everson, was the 
mystery cleared up?” 

“Oh, yes; he turns out to be the son of a gentleman, 
and the cousin of one of the officers !” 

“And he marries the lady?” 

“ Of course, and she would have married him anyhow, 
in spite of her relations and his low rank, even if the 
secret had not been found out.” 

“I admire her character then, without knowing any- 
thing about the book.” 

“ She was only a true woman, and gave her hand where 
her heart had gone before,” said Rose, quietly. 

Guy started, and the color, which the insolent taunt of 
Rochdale had not quickened, rushed to his very brow. He 
glanced at Rose; she was very pale, and the hand that 
held her fan trembled, but she would not look at him. 

To quiet the tumult in his heart, Guy got up and went 
to the window to look out on the night. The talk went 
on ; he could hear Miss Everson still holding forth upon 
the merits of the novel, and expressing her regret that the 
mysterious Onslow had not been brought into the play. 
Presently, finding they did not miss him, he stepped 
through the window out upon the grass, and in a few 
moments stood beneath the old elm-tree, which was the 
only one of the monarchs of the park that stood very near 
the house. Lost in his own thoughts, he did not remem- 


CHAR TER IS. 


225 


ber the loss of time, and the party were just breaking up 
when he rejoined them. 

Upon two things he had decided; one was to open the 
mysterious package, the other to tell Rose Forrester of 
his love for her. But which should he do first ? There 
was the rub. If she loved him he knew she would do as 
the girl in the novel would have done, — marry him, no 
matter whom he might find himself to be ; but had he 
the right, could he in honor ask her to share a life over 
which some .indelible disgrace had been flung? Ought 
he not first to know who and what he was before he spoke 
to her? Onslow knew his own story, though he chose 
to keep it a secret from others. Such was not his case. 
But he would know to-morrow; he would wait no longer, 
— a resolution which the events of the next twenty-four 
hours confirmed him in ; and he would also read “ Lady 
Lee’s Widowhood.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

The next morning Lady Margaret did not make her 
appearance. The earl, also, excused himself from his 
guests, as his wife was suffering from one of her attacks, 
and he could not leave her. So the company were left 
to. their own resources. 

Guy carefully avoided Theo ; nor was he in the mood 
for helping the others to pass the time in careless gayety. 
The mysterious packet was in his breast-pocket, and every 
now and then he would put his hand on it, to be sure of 
its safety ; but he could not bring himself to read it yet. 
Then, too, being the only one who knew the real nature 

K* 


226 


CHARTER IS. 


of Lady Margaret’s attack (which was represented to the 
other guests as a mere headache), he was anxious and dis- 
tressed for the earl. 

Rose and Miss Everson, and, of course, Mr. Jerning- 
ham, were over during the day to overlook the work in 
the billiard-room. After luncheon, they proposed driving 
over ^ to a neighbor’s, whose daughter. Rose said, had a 
decided talent for acting comic characters, and was a 
very good mimic, and would do Tabitha Stork admirably, 
if she could be prevailed upon to take the part. 

Wandering about the house rather aimlessly, Guy hap- 
pened to pass a door which he had not seen opened, just 
as the housekeeper was about to enter the room. Through 
the open door he caught a glimpse of pictures and armor, 
and knowing, from the antiquity of the Manor, that the 
collection must be interesting, begged permission to enter. 

Mrs. Crane readily consented, and threw the door wide 
open. As he crossed the threshold, and glanced around 
him, that strange half-remembrance came over him again ; 
the portraits, the quaint old armor, seemed so many old 
friends; as, indeed, they might, for the pictufb-gallery 
had been his favorite play-place, and many a mimic gal- 
lop had he had up and down its length, astride of the 
very same old sword upon which he now laid his hand. 

He gazed earnestly at the portraits. They were in 
every size and style, — some in gay cavalier’s dress, with 
velvet cloaks and plumed hats ; others in full suit of mail, 
with gauntleted hand resting upon the gleaming helmet. 
Ladies smiled down upon him in farthingale and ruff, 
or coquettishly peeped from behind huge Spanish fans. 
Others there were in the stiff coat and choker of George 
the Fourth’s time, and the still more ungraceful feminine 
habiliments of that day. As he paused before each, Mrs. 
Crane had some remark to make ; she seemed to know the 


CHAR TER IS. 


227 


family history from A to Z. At length he stood before a 
canvas, some three feet by five, which represented a boy 
of four years, dressed in more modern costume than any 
of the others. He was playing with a large setter-dog, 
of a light-tawny color, with white feet and breast, and 
tail tipped with white. 

Guy stood spell-bound. Where — in what previous ex- 
istence — had he seen that boy ? — where had he had such 
a dog to play with ? and who was the gentleman who had 
painted his picture, bribing him to keep quietly in some 
desired attitude by presents of bonbons, and, what he 
prized more, most marvelous stories of adventure by flood 
and field ? As he passed his hands over his face in a vain 
endeavor to drive away the clouds that still obscured his 
memory, Mrs. Crane spoke, — 

“Ah, sir, that is his lordship’s oldest son, — him as was 
lost so many years ago !” 

“ Lost !” exclaimed Guy. “ I understood that the earl’s 
first wife and child had been drowned.” 

“ Yes, that’s what I meant by lost, sir. Did you never 
hear the particulars, sir?” 

“ Never. Lord Straithness himself told me of his wife’s 
death ; but it was, evidently, a subject of so painful a 
nature that I never pressed him for the particulars. Did 
you live here in the first lady’s time?” 

“Oh, no, sir; the old housekeeper was my aunt, and 
I lived in the village, but came up to the Manor very often 
to see her, and to bring Mrs. Charteris (the old earl was 
living then) her laces, which she used to say I did up for 
her better than any one else ; and then I’d have a romp 
with Master Guy (and a lovely little gentleman he was, as 
ever you see), sometimes out on the terrace, and sometimes 
in this very room. He was very fond of playing horse, 
and riding about on that old sword you picked up a min- 


228 


CHARTER IS, 


ute ago. Ah, sir, but it was a bitter day when they were 
taken !” 

“Tell me about it,” said Guy. 

“ Well, sir, I only heard it at second-hand. Me and 
my sister had been up to the Manor that very morning ; 
Mr. Charteris — the earl — was away ; the mistress had lost 
an uncle, or some kin, very suddenly, and he had gone 
to the funeral. Well, that afternoon Master Guy begged 
to go to the boat. They were in the habit of taking a 
sail nearly every day. It was a boat the master had built 
for the mistress special, and she did manage it beautiful ! 
So they went j and, sir, they never came back. My lord 
— Mr. Charteris, that is — came that evening, just while 
they were searching, and they found the boat sunk, down 
the river, and Master Guy’s hat ; but the bodies was car- 
ried out to sea with the tide.” 

As the woman spoke, the picture of what she had de- 
scribed came up before Guy with startling vividness, only 
it was from the child’s point of view that he saw it ; and 
it seemed to him that he had had a part in the action, — 
that he was that child. But what folly ! he told himself. 
He was getting as nervous and fanciful as a woman ! 

“ Is there not a portrait of the first lady — of Mrs. Char- 
teris ?” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes ; a lovely picture, — it is down in my lady’s 
private sitting-room.” 

“ Can I see it ?” 

“ Certainly, sir ; I have the key, — it is the room where 
Mrs. Charteris sat, too, and where the master spent the 
first days after her death, shut up with Shott, and seeing 
no one.” 

“ Shott, the dog’s name !” said Guy, not as a question, 
but simply making the assertion. Of course, that was his 
dog’s name. 


CI/ARTERIS, 


229 


As he turned to follow Mrs. Crane from the room, he 
met the earl at the door. He paused, and held out his 
hand ; Mrs. Crane courtesied and withdrew. 

‘‘ So, Giulio, you have been going back to the roots of 
things ! This collection is a very fair guide.” 

‘‘ Yes,” replied Guy ; “I have an intense love for old 
relics, particularly family ones ; all the more so, perhaps,” 
he added sadly, because I have none of my own.” 

My poor Giulio!” said the earl, laying his hand 
kindly on his shoulder. “ Have you never opened that 
packet?” 

“ No, my lord ; but I shall do so soon — to-night, per- 
haps ; for I feel it is due to myself and my future — which, 
thanks to your kindness and generosity, looks very bright, 
in spite of all — to know the truth.” 

I think so, too, Giulio. Not, my dear boy, that you 
must take to heart Theo’s rash, rude words last night. He 
did not — no, I can’t say that — I fear he did mean them; 
but he is .irritated and unsettled on some matter very im- 
portant to himself and his future happiness. A matter in 
which, however much my wishes may be on his side — for 
his success — I will not interfere. So I must beg you to be 
patient with him. The boy has noble traits, Giulio, 
which his faults only show more clearly. I know you 
will accuse me of undue partiality — but I do not think I 
am guilty of that. I love him, God only knows how 
dearly. He came in the place of the one that was taken — 
whose loss at one time I felt I could not bear; but he has 
filled that place so completely that if — if the other were 
to come back from the dead — if the sea were to cast him 
up again — I could not put Theo out of it ! There 1’ he 
continued after a pause to recover himself, “you will 
think me foolish. Much as I love him, I see his faults, 
and feel that he was so rude last night I fear you cannot 


20 


230 


CHARTERIS. 


forgive him. He sought you to beg your pardon — but 
you ’ ’ 

My lord, no more ! From your son I can bear nearly 
everything ; and when you ask for forgiveness for him it is 
granted before you speak ! How is Lady Margaret now ?” 

“Better, thank you,” replied the earl, grasping Guy’s 
hand; “she is sleeping — or I left her sleeping quietly, 
and as I had some important business-letters to w'rite I 
thought I would take this time to do so. Then I want to 
talk to you about the election for Fernlie — we must be 
successful there ! ’ ’ 

As Guy passed down the stairs, he met Rochdale coming 
up. The young man colored as their eyes met, and, only 
for a moment, hesitated, the next he held out his hand 
saying,— 

“ Once more, Giulio, I must beg you to forgive my 
rudeness — my unkind words — if you can.” 

“They are already forgiven, Theo, and forgotten — I 
have just left your father.” 

On reaching the lower hall, Guy was about to seek 
Mrs. Crane, to beg her to show him the portrait of the 
first mistress of Charteris, when he met Miss Everson and 
her party just leaving the billiard-room. Rose was not 
with them, having gone to Lady Margaret’s room to 
inquire for her. 

“Oh, Mr. Conway! have you seen how nicely the 
theatre is progressing ? Lord Straithness is so kind to take 
so much trouble and such an interest! Why, he is going 
to have a regular scene-painter down from London — and 
real scenery to run in grooves just like a real theatre. 
And you are going with us, ain’t you, this afternoon? Lady 
Worthington says she thinks Miss Wareham will take the 
part of Tabitha Stork, and we are going to see her, and 
insist upon it.” 


CHAR TER IS. 


231 


I think I shall be obliged to deny myself the pleasure 
of the ride — I’ve ” 

“No engagement — oh, Mr. Conway, don’t say the 
word. Sir Thomas and Lady Clara are going, and Mr. 
Jerningham and I, and Lady Worthington ” 

“ Is not Rochdale going?” 

“ I don’t think he has been asked. Besides, I don’t 
think the earl would like him to leave home with his 
mother so ill ” 

“ Ought we not all to stay, on that account?” 

“ Certainly, if Lady Straithness is really dangerously 
ill. But Lady Rose has gone to see how she is, and it 
will depend upon her report whether we go or not. If 
we go you must go with us — we will take no refusal.” 

“ Very well,” replied Guy. “ I shall obey your orders 
— and am at your service.” 

“ That is right — and there comes the baroness. Well, 
is Lady Margaret Letter ?” 

“ Much better,” replied Rose, “and when I told her 
that we intended putting off our ride to Barnstaple this 
afternoon, she would not listen to it — insisted that she 
was well enough, and we must not put off any pleasure 
for her.” 

“And I have asked Mr. Conway to join the party.” 

“And he has consented?” asked Rose, looking up at 
him. 

“ He could not do otherwise. Lady Rose,” replied Guy. 


I 


232 


CHARTER IS, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The ride was a delightful one to all, but more particu- 
larly to Guy, for Rose was more like her old self than she 
had been since his return, and seemed to deprecate his 
displeasure at her former shyness. She begged him to 
dine at the Towers, and he promised to do so; conse- 
quently as the time between their return from their drive 
and the dinner hour was only sufficient for him to dress, 
he had no chance to open the sealed package. He took 
it out of his coat-pocket and locked' it up in his dressing- 
table drawer before he left his room. 

‘‘The evening was as delightful as the ride had been, 
and Guy left the Towers, feeling that no matter what 
revelation of shame opening the package would make — 
he had tasted such supreme .happiness that night that the 
world could never look dark to him again. For he had 
called her “Rose” as in the olden time; and she had 
smiled with pleasure at the name, and in return had called 
him “Giulio,” and when he kissed her hand at parting 
she had not drawn it away, but let it nestle in his clasp, 
while her eyes sought his for one moment with a loving 
light in them, to fall before his gaze, as the rosy blushes 
stole over cheek and neck. She had worn his Mexican 
ornaments too, for the first time since his return. 

Altogether, as Guy stood upon the terrace on his return 
to the Manor, and gazed upon the lovely scene, mellowed 
by the delicious moonlight, he could say with truth that 
he was supremely happy. Ah, Guy ! Was there no moni- 
tor to whisper warning of coming sorrow? Look your last 


CHARTER IS, 


233 




with hopeful, happy eyes upon park and river, to-night ; 
for it will be many a long day ere you can teach yourself 
to see aught of contentment or happiness in this world 
again ! 

He looked up at the fair, soft moon, as Guy Charteris 
had looked up at her, years ago. The sky was as serene 
then as now, and the silvery orb rolled through the liquid 
blue as calmly. Rollo, the Newfoundland dog, came up 
and greeted him dog-fashion ; he played with the silky 
ears and patted the noble head, and it was with a sigh of 
perfect content that he finally turned to enter the house. 

In order to reach the door of the hall opening on the 
terrace, Guy was obliged to pass a room the windows of 
which were thrown open to-night, and in which a lamp 
and several candles were burning. During the three days 
he had been at the Manor, these windows having been 
closed, he had not noticed them particularly. Now, at- 
tracted by the strong light, he paused and looked in : — It 
was Lady Straithness’s sitting-room. She was there reclin- 
ing upon a chaise-longue y while the earl sat beside her, 
reading aloud. Their faces were turned away from the 
open window, and Guy, having stepped lightly, they were 
not attracted by any sound from him. 

He stood looking at the countess, studying the now 
evident traces the disease had made in her sweet face. 
Then, as he glanced at the earl, his heart went out to him 
with a throb of sympathy as he thought of the terrible 
blow which so surely if so slowly was to fall upon him. 
Presently he raised his eyes and started at what met them. 
He gazed long and earnestly; passed his hand over his 
brow as if to clear his vision, then looked again. 

Over the mantel, filling in the whole panel, and illu- 
minated by a lamp, arranged so as to throw the light just 
where it ought to fall, was a picture. There were three 

20* 


234 


CHARTEI^IS. 


figures, life-size, upon the canvas; one, a lady, was seated 
upon a mossy bank, beneath the shade of an oak-tree, 
weaving garlands of oak-leaves, with which a boy (the 
counterpart of the portrait in the gallery) was decking a 
tawny-colored setter-dog who submitted patiently, but 
with an inquiring glance turned towards his mistress, as 
if he wanted to know how long the affair was to last. The 
frame was a plain, narrow, black walnut one, but at the top 
was a scroll, and on it, in gilt letters, names and dates. 

“ Clare and Guy; born, i8 — and i8 — ; lost, i8 — ;” 

It was his mother’s face ! Changed as Clare had been 
in the last years of her life, the beauty faded and worn, 
still there was enough left to tell him who the original of 
the picture was. He had never forgotten his mother’s 
features, the sad, sweet, patient beauty of which had been 
his childish idea of all that was perfect. And here was 
the same face, so different ! So radiant with life, love, 
and happiness ! And the boy, was it not himself? or had 
he dreamed of just such a dog, and of being coaxed and 
petted to keep still a few moments in order to have a 
little boy just like him come out on the big canvas ? 

Guy and Clare ! Clare and Guy ! Clare ! He had 
heard his Uncle George” call her so. But this Clare 
and Guy were dead, — drowned in the dreadful river, — 
washed out to sea with the tide. So people said, but 
there came now to him a confused remembrance of a boat 
with water in it, — and the river, — the river was so familiar 
to him and yet so strange. The Manor, too: some parts 
of it seemed to be mixed up with these perplexing memo- 
ries. His very room, — that very picture, — had he not 
seen them before ? 

He held the solution in his own hands, he must read it 
before he slept. Slowly and quietly he turned away and 
entered the house. Slowly he ascended the broad stair- 


CHARTERIS. 


235 


case to his room, for he dreaded, much as he longed for,* 
the revelation. 

“Blood is thicker than water.” The old adage came 
to his mind as he went over the years since he had known 
the earl. What else had attracted them so strongly to 
each other ? Why had he looked up to and revered 
Lord Straithness as if he had been his own father? And 
why had his lordship in return seemed to lean upon him as 
he would have done upon an oldest son ? Why, too, had 
Lady Margaret, with all her kindness and gentleness, and 
the real interest she showed in his welfare, yet recognized 
an antagonism between them, of which Rochdale was the 
objective point ? 

He reached his room, closed and locked the door, took 
the mysterious package out of the drawer in which he 
had locked it, drew the candles together on the table, 
and seated himself beside it. He essayed to break the 
seal, but his hands shook so he could not do it. He laid 
t’ e paper down, and leaning back in his chair strove 
to steady his nerves by sheer force of will. Then he 
opened the package. Inclosed was a small miniature, ex- 
quisitely painted, and the face that looked up at him 
from the ivory was that of the Earl of Straithness. There 
was no mistake. There was the same intellectual, high- 
bred, noble face, feature for feature; the hair curling in 
close curls over his head was brown, as Guy remembered 
it when he first knew him; the long, drooping moustache, 
now white as the hair, was brown, too, still there was no 
mistaking the face. 

“Father!” 

He hardly knew he spoke, and the sound of his own 
voice frightened him. 

Then he opened the paper and read 


% 


BOOK EIGHTH. 


CHAPTER I. 

The gray daylight dawning found Guy sitting where we 
left him. The candles had burnt down to their sockets, 
a pile of manuscript leaves lay between his feet, his elbows 
rested on his knees, his head was bent down over them, 
so that his hands were clinched in his hair, and his eyes 
stared with dilated gaze at the papers on the floor. 

So the gray daylight found him ; so he sat while Aurora 
opened still further the portals of the East, and touched 
the tops of the trees, the summits of the hills, and the 
tips of the dancing waves with her rosy fingers, causing 
all nature to deck herself in rich array to greet her king. 
So he sat, when, everything being prepared by his hand- 
maid, the Day-god rose from his couch of clouds and 
looked down upon his waiting subjects. 

Then Guy roused himself ; but the face he raised to 
greet the morning was so haggard and changed from 
that with which he had lingeringly gazed into the moon- 
lit sky, that Rose would hardly have known him. One 
by one he picked up the sheets of paper lying at his feet 
and arranged them in an orderly pile upon the table, then 
he folded them and put them in an envelope. 

That done, he picked up a pen and was about to write 
a name upon it. But he paused, laid the pen down, took 
236 


CHARTER IS. 


237 


it up again, wrote the word ‘‘Lady” on the envelope, 
then threw it away again. 

Should he tell Rose? Need she know? 

Yes j it would be impossible to keep the whole truth 
from her, and better she should know all than part. But 
not yet ; let him look the matter over calmly himself, see 
it in all its bearings, so he could the better guide and 
counsel her. Her father had wrought the evil; his malice 
had worked all the mischief; would his father receive her 
as his daughter when he knew the truth? Would she 
marry him knowing all the truth ! Ah ! Rose, Rose, not 
for one moment did the coronet outweigh your love in 
Guy’s heart ! He must win you, come else what might! 

But what was he to do? How begin his tale? Go to 
the earl and say. The woman you have called your wife is 
not so. Clare, my mother, was living when you married 

her I Your boy, your Theodore, is a Ah I how 

could he? Distinctly, as if they had been just spoken, 
Guy heard the words : 

“He has filled that place so completely, that if the 
other one were to come back, if the sea were to give back 
its prey, I could not put Theo out of it.” 

W^'ere those words meant in their fullest meaning? Was 
there indeed no place for him ? The sea had given back 
its prey; would not his mother’s eyes looking from his 
face open his father’s heart to him ? Must he still be an 
outcast ? 

And Rose, his peerless flower? Ah I thought was mad- 
ness I ^ He could not, would not give it leave to torture 
him. He plunged his face into cold water, removed, as 
far as possible, the traces of the night’s anguish from his 
person, then, securing the package carefully, ran down- 
stairs and out into the fresh air. The cool breath of the 
morning revived him, but he had no eyes for the beauties 


238 


CHARTERIS. 


and brightness of the scene. .The dog who had stood 
beside him the night before came forward now with a 
joyous gambol and bark of greeting, but he laid his hand 
on his head mechanically, and the animal, after looking 
up wonderingly into his face, started off towards the river 
for his morning bath. Guy stood on the terrace, looked 
off over the landscape, and marked the silver-winged sea- 
gulls flying up from the shore with a sort of dull fascina- 
tion, as if his fate depended upon the birds making a 
certain flight ; and perhaps it was their movements that 
gave him the idea of finding relief in motion, for he 
turned towards the stables, ordered a horse to be saddled, 
and, mounting, rode rapidly away. 

Nor did he draw rein until the animal showed signs of 
weariness and refused to obey the urging of whip or spur. 
Then he looked around him and found himself miles 
away from Charteris, in a part of the country to which he 
w^as a perfect stranger. He looked at his watch, it was 
nearly eleven o’clock. Having had no rest all night and 
not breaking his fast that morning, he felt himself over- 
come with fatigue, and all thought was centred upon 
finding physical relief. A little farther on, a sudden turn 
of the road revealed a small wayside inn, at which both 
horse and rider were glad to halt. He saw his dumb com- 
panion comfortably stabled and fed, ordered something 
for himself, and as soon as he had eaten, locked himself 
into the room provided for him, and, throwing himself on 
the bed, slept the heavy sleep of mental and physical 
exhaustion. 


CHARTERIS. 


239 


CHAPTER IL 

Meantime he had been missed at the Manor, and much 
surprise, and, on the part of the earl, uneasiness, at his 
absence was expressed. But as there was no clue to his 
whereabouts, except the missing horse, they were forced 
to possess their souls in patience until he should return, 
or send some word. Towards night he did return, but 
went to his room immediately, and sent to excuse his 
absence from dinner on the plea of indisposition. When 
the earl sought him, he was not in his room ; nor did 
they meet until a much later hour. 

During the ride home Guy thought over his situation 
carefully, and found he could come to no conclusion until 
he had seen Rose. It was due to her to be told the whole 
terrible story; but how could he tell her? Indeed, he 
could not, — she must read it, as he had done, and bear 
the blow with what strength God would grant her. So, 
immediately upon his return, he inclosed the package to 
her, and sent it by a servant, with directions to put it into 
no one’s hands but Lady Worthington’s. He added but 
a line from himself. It was : 

“ Meet me on the beach when you have read, — I will 
be waiting for you.” 

He longed to call her his darling,— to add some words 
of loving comfort to the heart so soon to be torn with 
such bitter anguish ; but he checked the impulse,— let her 
know the bare truth at first, the love and tenderness would 
be shown afterwards, when he and she had settled what 
was to be done. 


240 


CHAR TER IS. 


The trees of the park grew very close to the water’s 
edge, allowing only about twenty yards of sandy beach 
to intervene between them and the breakers. Here and 
there, upon the edge of the sward, rustic benches were 
placed for the accommodation of those who wished to 
spend any length of time under the spell of the restless 
waters. Upon one of these Guy threw himself, and was 
soon lost to all around him, in sad and bitter thought. 

Giulio ! oh, Giulio ! Forgive ! He was my father !” 

How long he had sat there he knew not ; it was the 
voice of Rose, hoarse with suffering, that recalled him to 
himself. She was at his feet, clasping his knees and 
pleading with white lips and wild eyes for pardon for her 
father. 

‘‘Rose! my darling 1” 

And he gathered her up in his arms and held her close, 
until her passion of tears had spent itself, murmuring 
tender words of love, and kissing lip and cheek and eyes. 
When the first agony was over, and she could think of the 
meaning of his words and actions, she drew his face down 
to hers and kissed his lips, trying to smile through her 
tears. 

This was their betrothal. 

Then, as she grew calm, they sat for awhile watching 
the waves, and the sea-birds flitting over them, sometimes 
so low as to dip their silvery wings in the water, anon so 
high as to be almost out of sight. 

They tried to plan for the future, for Guy told her of 
the earl’s words to him only the day before. How, with 
them ringing in his ears, could he tell him who he was? 

But Rose had greater faith; she knew that the joy of 
finding the one in whom from the first he had taken such 
unusual interest, — for whom he had felt such warm affec- 
tion, — was, indeed, the son who, from babyhood, he had 


CHARTER IS, 


241 


mourned as dead, would sweep away all later feelings and 
open the father’s heart to admit him to his proper place 
there. 

But Rochdale — Theo, and Lady Margaret ? The date 
of Clare’s death and their marriage — how was all that to 
be managed ? And Rose ? 

“ Put the manuscript into his lordship’s hands, Giulio, 
dearest ; let him know all. Then, be the consequences 
what they may, we have done right. As for me — if — if — 
by any suffering I can atone for my father’s sin, gladly, 
willingly will I endure it. Only, that I may be sure of 
your love through all, Giulio. My father ! my father ! 
and I loved him so !” 

She covered her face with her hands \ he drew her 
towards him again, and soothed her with all a lover’s 
arts. 

The sun had gone down into the crimsoned waters, the 
twilight had begun to fade into the darkness of night ; 
and still they sat there, heedless of all but their own full 
hearts. At last, Rose remembered how they must be 
missing her. She must play her part of hostess with a 
smiling face, even if her heart was breaking. So they 
rose, and slowly retraced their steps to the bridge. There 
they parted, but only for a time, for the first rehearsal of 
the play was to come off that evening, and they must go 
through the mockery of that as best they could. 

Guy reached his room unnoticed ; the ladies had just 
left the dinner-table, and the gentlemen were still sitting 
over their wine. 

Rose found that dinner had been delayed for her, and 
a search had been instituted in vain. Hastily changing 
her dress, she made her appearance in the drawing-room, 
and apologized as well as she was able for her absence. 
Fortunately, the play was the uppermost idea in the minds 

L 21 


242 


CHARTER IS. 


of all, and no particular comment was made upon her 
delay. 

How Rose got through that terrible dinner she never 
knew. Worse still was to be the ordeal of the rehearsal. 
How could she and Guy go through it with this terrible 
secret between them ? 

But when Guy cartie she found his presence nerved 
and supported her. He was quieter than usual, otherwise 
there was no change. A glance passed between them, 
in which he strove to assure her, and she to thank him. 

The rehearsal passed off much to Miss Everson’s satis- 
faction, and the next one was fixed for that night week, 
on which occasion books would be tabooed. 


CHAPTER III. 

The party of guests at the Manor was lessened consid- 
erably the next day, all leaving but Sir Thomas Felton 
and Guy. This gave the earl the opportunity he had been 
seeking to talk over the Fernlie election with his protege. 
Accordingly, immediately after breakfast, he proposed to 
Guy to spend the morning with him in going over the 
business. And as Lady Margaret’s room was more pleas- 
antly situated than his study, he suggested that they should 
adjourn thither. Poor Guy could find no excuse. As 
they entered the room he glanced up at the picture. The 
earl saw his glance, and followed it; he sighed, and 
passed his hand over his eyes : 

“Yes, there they are, Giulio, — fny sweet Clare and my 
first-born ! But I cannot mourn for them as one without 
consolation ; for, have I not been blessed in those who 


CHARTER IS. 


243 


have grown into their places ? I often wonder if my lit- 
tle Guy would have developed as fine a nature as Theo 
has; and my wife ! But they are so entirely different, I 
couldn’t, if I would, make any comparison.” 

It is a beautiful picture !” Guy forced himself to an- 
swer. 

'‘Yes. How well I remember the bribing process we 
had to go through with the boy to keep him still ! You 
have his eyes, Giulio ; I believe that was what attracted 
me at first to you. Well, now to business.” 

It required a strong effort on Guy’s part not to throw 
his arms around the earl’s neck and call him “father.” 
But Theo had “grown into his place,” — he was an out- 
cast yet, — better submit quietly to his fate. So, he listened 
to Straithness’s plans, and tried to enter into them, — 
strove to pay the attention the earl had a right to expect, 
but in what mental distress can well be imagined. He 
could not refrain from glancing at the picture over and 
over again, and twice he put his hand on the MS. and 
was about to give it to his patron, but his heart failed 
him. 

“And now, Giulio, about that ” 

Guy’s heart stood still. Was he about to ask if he had 
opened the package ? But the momentous question was 
prevented by the entrance of Lady Margaret, and both 
gentlemen arose to greet her. As Guy stood up, his face 
was brought into the same line of vision with Clare’s por- 
trait. The earl had turned away to draw up a chair. She 
glanced at the picture, then at Guy, and a sickening 
feeling crept up to her heart, and she staggered into her 
husband’s arms. 

He caught her and held her to him, in dread for what 
the result might be ; but she recovered herself in a mo- 
ment, and made some excuse for the attack. Guy did 


244 


CHARTER IS. 


not dare to meet her eyes, but he felt them fixed upon his 
face several times, and he grew very nervous. 

“I hope I am not interrupting an important tdte-a- 
tdte,” said Margaret. 

‘‘By no means. Pearl : we have talked over all the 
business relating to the election, and next week ” 

“A message, my lord, from Mr. Wareham,” said the 
servant, entering at this moment; “and will your lord- 
ship please to meet him at Barnstaple, at two o’clock, on 
important business?” 

“ Say ‘ yes’ — I’ll be there,” answered the earl. “ And 
I’ll have no more than time to get there,” he continued, 
looking at his watch. 

Fortunately for Guy, Lady Margaret seemed to have 
no desire for a t8te-a-t8te, but excused herself and left the 
room with the earl. 

As soon as he was free Guy sought the beach. There 
he was not likely to be disturbed, and the restless moan- 
ing of the ocean kept time to his troubled thoughts. 
There too he was to meet Rose, as soon as she could 
escape from her duties to her guests. 

It was late in the day when she joined him, for it 
seemed, to her nervous, excited mind, that she could not 
move without a demand upon her attention from some 
quarter. At length, luncheon over, she left them to 
prepare for a drive from which she excused herself and 
hurried to the rendezvous. 

She shuddered as she passed the bridge, and could not 
bear to look at the water She thought of the agony the 
bereaved husband had suffered as he gazed upon the river, 
of the anguish and the misery the walls of her own house 
had witnessed, and she felt as if she could not remain 
there any longer — she must go over to Ireland. Wor- 
thington had none but happy associations connected with 


CHAR TER IS. 


245 


it ; she would make that her future home, and when she 
was married — but here she paused in the mental picture. 

It was all darkness and confusion. 

When she met Guy, it was with a pitiful attempt to 
look hopeful and to smile — but it was a very wan smile, 
and the sweet eyes filled with tears. He held her close 
to him and kissed them away. Then they paced the sands 
in earnest talk. 

'‘Are you aware, dearest, that it was a project of my — 
his lordship’s, that you and Theo should marry?” 

“ Lady Margaret once or twice hinted it to me.” 

“ So you see, even if this — if I had not — if I were not 
who I am— I should have hardly dared to hope for their 
consent. Did you ever think seriously of Rochdale as 
your husband ?” 

“ Never, Giulio ! To me he is a mere boy — I love him 
dearly as a cousin — and friend ” 

“ But you know he loves you?” 

“ Yes ; but it is a boy’s first passion— he will get over 
it without injury to himself.” 

“ Poor Theo — if ” 

“ It seems cruel to the boy, Giulio — but he is a noble 
fellow and will see the justice of it.” 

“ But Rose, suppose I do not speak— suppose I let the 
secret lie between us ? How can I hurl such a thunderbolt 
into the midst of a peaceful, happy family !” 

Then he told her of Lady Margaret’s partial recogni- 
tion of him that morning. 

“Act as your own generous heart shall dictate, Giulio 

let no thought of me influence you. It matters little 

whether you are known as the eldest son of the Earl of 
Straithness, or plain Giulio Conway, of Fernlie, the pro- 
tege of his lordship. You are my Giulio through all.” 

"’“My own Rose! Ah, dearest, I know you- love me, 
21* 


246 


CHARTERIS. 


but you cannot know how my hungry heart craves every 
expression of your love. Think what my life has been — 
so cut off from natural ties — and pity me, Rose ” 

He paused, for the earl and countess were approaching 
through the trees ; they were in earnest talk, and had not 
as yet seen that there was any one near. So the lovers 
had time to draw apart. Then Rose approached Lady 
Margaret and spoke. She started and looked surprised, 
and an expression of regret passed over her face as she 
bowed to Guy. He, too, approached and the four stood 
upon the sands talking, but every little while Margaret 
would send a searching glance over Guy’s face — and if 
her eyes chanced to meet his, they had a mute appeal in 
them which he could not acknowledge nor answer. 

At length their attention was called to the movements 
of a boat which was scudding before the freshening wind 
from the direction of the river. 

** Theo said he was going for a sail this afternoon — that 
must be he !” exclaimed Margaret. 

“ Foolish boy ! why does he not take in his sail ! The 
wind is too strong for it,” exclaimed the earl, hurrying 
down the beach, as if he expected to reach his son in that 
way. Guy and Rose instinctively drew apart from the 
others, and watched with bated breath. 

Rochdale saw them and waved his hat, then as he stood 
up to change the sail, a sudden gust of the wind loosened 
it, the boat gave a lurch, and in another moment the 
young man was in the water. 

“ My God !” shrieked Margaret, grasping her husband’s 
arm. 

“ Be calm, my love — our boy can swim — it is not far,” 
was his reply to her; but his heart sank within him. 
‘‘ Must the sea have them both !” he said to himself. 

Guy and Rose watched the swimmer anxiously; 


once 


CHAR TER IS. 


247 


only their eyes met, but neither dared think what might 
be the meaning of that glance. 

Theo was a good swimmer, and made headway well at 
first. But either he had overtasked his strength, or a 
cramp seized him — he began to lag, and finally threw up 
his arms and disappeared beneath the waves. 

A fearful scream from Margaret — a groan of agony from 
Straithness roused Guy from the thoughts which had been 
crowding into his brain as he stood there. Again his eyes 
met those of Rose ; she grasped his arm and whispered 
with ashy lips, “Not that, Guy — for God’s sake — not 
that!'' 

With the sound of her voice came a vision of the far- 
off Dalmatian Monastery, and over the gate he read the 
words, — 

“ What shall it profit a matij if he shall gain the whole 
world j and lose his own soul ?' ’ 

The next instant he had flung off coat and hat' and 
boots, and was breasting the waters towards the place 
where Theo had disappeared. He rose again, and Guy 
caught him before he sank. 

It was a fierce struggle with the waves to return, and 
only by strenuous efforts was Guy enabled to reach the 
shore with his insensible burden. He laid the slight form 
at his father’s feet. Margaret threw herself down beside 
it, tore open coat and vest, and laid her hand upon his 
heart. “He lives — it beats — My God, I thank thee!” 
she cried, and sank down beside her boy equally un- 


conscious. 


248 


CHAR TER IS. 


CHAPTER IV. 


** Rose.” 

Yes, Guy. ” 

Can you bear it ?” 

God will help me, Guy.” 

“ God ! Ah, why is He so cruel? What have I done 


“ Guy ! Guy !” She threw her arms around him, and 
looked up at him with a face so agonized he hardly knew 
it. How could words meet that suffering? What of 
earth could solace it ? He flung himself on his knees : 

Rose, my darling, tell me once more you forgive me, 
— that you will think tenderly of me in the far-off future, 
when my place in the world shall know me no more ! 
Speak to me, love — speak ! Put your hand on my head, 
and bless me !” 

She looked at him, kneeling there, long and steadily; 
then she laid her hand upon his curls, and strove to speak ; 
but the white lips refused their office. She bowed her- 
self down and kissed his brow, and he knew the blessing 
came in that mute caress. 

Margaret — Lady Straithness — is dead. Once more 
Guy Charteris sits at a widowed hearth. But he is not 
all desolate now, — his son is spared ; he has still something 
to live for. < 

And Guy? 

Bitter had been the anguish, and fierce the struggle ; 
but he has conquered. The die is cast, and he knows 
\ 


CHARTER IS. 


249 


there is but one course open to him now. The horrible 
temptation to which he listened for a small fraction of a 
minute claims his whole life in reparation. He was torn 
with conflicting sentiments before ; he knew not which 
course to pursue. The way is open to him now, and his 
own sin has pointed it out. Along that way, so dark and 
desolate, he must walk alone ; no human hand can guide, 
no human companionship can cheer. God and his angels 
only can bring him peace, — to Him only can. he look for 
comfort ! And rest will come when, the long bead-roll 
of his atonement being told, he lays down the weary 
burden of his life at his Saviour’s feet. 

In that terrible moment, when the thought that letting 
his brother sink would cut the Gordian knot of his own 
fate stood black before him, and he let it stay — did not 
put it down, but looked at it calmly, in all its horrible 
deformity — in that terrible moment, all the bright hopes 
he had built of earthly happiness were swallowed up in 
the surging waves. Margaret’s death did not help him ; 
she could now, of course, know nothing of the shame and 
suffering which a revelation of himself would have caused 
her, — showing, as it would have done, her terribly false 
position; but he felt that had he not hesitated, — had he 
not listened to the voice of the tempter, — she would 
not have died. Her death was upon his head, and his life 
must atone for it. 

Rose knew it. 

He had written to her of his determination ; and when 
they met he had knelt at her feet and begged her to for- 
give the anguish he had brought into her life, — begged 
her to help and strengthen him. 

She found it was no passing horror of his sinful thought 
which time would assuage and obliterate; she knew he 
could find no peace of mind until it was atoned for ; and, 

L •• 


250 


CHAR TER IS. 


knowing this, with all a woman’s self-devotion she put 
her own heart-suffering aside, and bent all her energies 
to solace and support him in the sacrifice. She, too, 
owed him an atonement for her father’s sin, the vicarious 
atonement of which they had talked up there in Scotland, 
beside their bonny burn ; and if, by renouncing all earthly 
happiness for herself, she could contribute to his peace, 
she was ready with the offering. 

So they had sought the beach to bid each other a last 
farewell. Guy had not trusted himself to see the earl ; he 
had written a last letter, filled with gratitude and affection, 
and a yearning which ^traithness could not understand, 
but renouncing all his plans and projects and future hopes 
and bidding an eternal farewell to him and England. 

He will not return to the Manor, — the house where he 
should hold the first-born’s honored place, and which had 
grown strangely dear to him in the last few days. He had 
taken leave of it, and, standing in the terrace, it seemed 
to him that the long garlands of the ivy which clothed 
the gray-stone walls, waving in the wind, seemed so many 
arms beckoning him back to name and home and happi- 
ness^ He will not return to them ; he wishes his last 
memories to be of Rose, and of her only. 

How can language paint the agony of that parting? 
How can he give her up ? They are so young, and all 
the world was so bright with hope — when ? Only a few 
days ago? Only a week ago? And there had been no 
earthquake, — no upheaving of things from their founda- 
tions in the material world ; the sky was as calm, the 
earth as beautiful in the fullness of its midsummer charms. 
The sea rolled on its never-ceasing waves, heedless of the 
hopes they had engulfed ; one after the other they rushed 
upon the beach, up almost to their very feet; and the 
sunlight danced upon their white caps and sparkled in the 


CHARTERIS. 


251 


drops of spray, and all was as it had been. But their eyes 
saw nothing save gloom and darkness and deep despair. 

And so they parted. There were no words spoken, no 
agonized embrace at the last. Eye spoke to eye language 
that no lips could utter. And, gazing into each other’s 
faces, they slowly drew apart — -she towards the sheltering 
trees, among which he lost her ; he along the desolate 
shore — whither ? 


CHAPTER V. 

The monk Anselmo, aged and worn with fasts and 
vigils, sat at the monastery gate, as he was fond of doing, 
and watched the sun go down into the sea. 

His lips moved in prayer, and the white, emaciated 
fingers passed the beads of a rosary through their trem- 
bling grasp. His dim eyes can see the power and good- 
ness of his God in the earth He has created, and the love- 
liness of the scene is not lost to him. But there is a 
figure, worn and weary, toiling slowly up the path over 
which Guy’s young footsteps used to spring so lightly, 
which does not attract him specially. 

It is not until Guy himself, altered and suffering, stands 
before him that he recognizes him. Then he essays to 
rise, but ere he can do so his foster-child is kneeling at 
his feet, and resting his poor aching head upon his knee. 

‘‘ I have come home, father, for rest and comfort, — to 
hide myself and my sin.” 

“ My poor boy ! Has it come so soon ?” 

And the trembling fingers are passed over the brown 
curls caressingly, and tears drop from the aged eyes. 


BOOK NINTH AND LAST. 


CHAPTER L 

Eight years have passed, dragging their weary length 
(brightened only by the power she has for good to others) 
to Rose — Lady Worthington ; bearing on their wings 
increasing peace and rest to Giulio Conway; whispering 
new hopes and joys to Theodore — Viscount Rochdale; 
and laying their hands upon the heart of the earl (gently, 
not smiting it, but as a harper lays his open palm upon 
his harp, to deaden the vibrations). Rochdale and his 
wife do the honors of Straithness Castle, and Rose spends 
much of her time at Worthington, and her tenants arise 
and call her blessed. But Charteris clings to the old 
Manor, and seldom leaves it. His ambition is dead, and 
he cares for nothing the world can give. Tempting offers 
have been made to him from friends in place and power, 
but he declines them all. 

The only thing he does care for is a visit from his chil- 
dren and his grand-children. And Rose often forces 
herself to endure the painful memories which have gath- 
ered around Brandon Towers, in order to be near him ; 
for her presence is a great comfort and solace to the old 
man. 

He fretted much at Guy’s sudden and mysterious de- 
parture, and resented the readiness with which he gave 
252 


CHARTERIS. 


253 


up all his future— and that future had looked so fair and 
bright ! Guy told him in the letter in which he bade fare- 
well to him, that he had opened the sealed package and 
what he found there had driven him away. The earl felt 
Guy’s want of confidence in himself in this matter keenly 
—what could have been revealed there that the boy could 
not have confided to him, his best friend? But Guy was 
gone— gone, and there was no trace of him left ; he could 
hear nothing of him; he had written to Father Anselmo, 
but the letter was answered in a strange hand — Father 
Anselmo was dead. 

Charteris did not know the tie which bound Guy and 
Rose, but when he spoke to her of Rochdale’s suit, she 
silenced him by telling him of her love for Guy, and 
that she would have married him, had they felt it possible 
knowing what the fatal package contained. No other 
could be her husband— and if Giulio never came back to 
claim her, she would pray God to meet him in heaven. 

“Did he say he would return?” asked Charteris 


eagerly. . ^ j • 

“No— I cannot hope it— I only pray for it. God is 

merciful as well as just, and the future is in His hands. 

So the years went on. 

But one spring the earl grew restless, and wrote to Rose 
proposing she should join him in a Continental tour, as 

Rochdale could not go. ^ ^ 

Without hesitation she consented, and the rs 
March saw them in Paris. . They had no fixed plan, but 
went whither their fancy led them, and fond, =«eet memo- 
ries clustering around the sad-faced queen of the Agnatic 
drew them irresistibly to her, when once upon Italian 


'°‘r was the week before Easter, and Lenten services 
were being held in all the churches. In that of the 


22 


254 


CHARTERIS. 


Saluta, a regular course of sermons in English had been 
given during the preceding six weeks, for the benefit of 
those strangers who wished to profit by them. The 
preacher was a Franciscan monk, comparatively young, 
for he could not be forty years old, whose wonderful soul- 
stirring eloquence was the talk of Venice, and all visitors 
thronged to hear him. He was emaciated and worn with 
austerities, and the frail body seemed hardly able to con- 
tain the fervid spirit which animated it. 

Rose and the earl, hearing an English lady whom they 
knew, and who was stopping at the same hotel, express 
her enjoyment of the sermon, and wonder at the marvel- 
ous gift the preacher possessed, decided to hear him 
themselves. 

That afternoon, they crossed to the Saluta church — 
stepping into the gondola, from the Piazza di San Marco, 
at the same riva at which they first met Guy. Rose’s 
eyes filled as she recalled the scene — and the earl passed 
his hand over his face and gazed out over the waters. 
They reached the church and wandered about until, 
at the appointed hour, a monk in the white robes of 
the Franciscans came out of the sacristy and walked 
slowly down to the pulpit. His cowl was drawn over his 
head, but Rose noticed that he was tall, and the hands 
which gathered his habit up from about his feet were 
white and beautifully shaped. She followed the figure 
with a sort, of fascination. He ascended the pulpit-steps, 
knelt for a moment in prayer, stood up and threw back 
his cowl. Rose had bowed her head as he knelt, and 
when she looked up again, he was standing uncovered 
before her, and the face that she looked upon was the 
face of Giulio Conway. 

A faint cry escaped her, and she half rose from her 
seat, then remembering where she was, sank back and 


CHAR TER IS. 


255 


covered her face with her hands. The earl had not no- 
ticed the preacher — he was glancing around the church, 
observing the picturesque groups of worshipers in their 
odd costumes. At his companion’s exclamation he looked 
up and met the eyes of the monk fixed upon him. He 
started and looked again — yes, it was Giulio, his long- 
lost Giulio ; but changed — oh, so changed ! He put out 
his hand and laid it upon that of Rose in silent sym- 
pathy. 

Then the voice of the monk broke the stillness ; that 
rich, sweet voice, so familiar to them both — so inexpres- 
sibly dear to one — thrilled through and through them. 
He had the notes of his intended sermon with him, but 
after a moment’s thought he put them aside, and clasping 
his hands on the edge of the pulpit, leaned slightly for- 
ward and quoted the words : 

“ What shall it profit a man if he shall gain the whole 
world, and lose his own soul?” 

Then he spoke : the sermon was not long — it lasted 
scarcely twenty minutes, but in that little time he pictured 
for Rose the struggles, trials, and temptations of the last 
eight years, in words that thrilled her every fibre. The 
earl, too, knew enough to understand the inspiration in 
part — and all resentment was lost in admiration. 

But as Guy was speaking, Straithness had time to note 
the changes which had come over his favorite ; the hands 
were thin and transparent, the face wasted and worn and 
pale ; great black circles were around the hollow sunken 
eyes, and the nostrils looked pinched and thin. Once or 
twice as he put his hankerchief to his lips it was stained 
with blood. 

He spoke to Rose, forgetting that there were others 
near, and as Bhe looked up once, and found those beauti- 
ful eyes fixed upon her with such tenderness and pity, she 


CHARTERIS. 


256 

bowed her head over her clasped hands and did not raise 
it again. He finished his discourse, and, descending the 
pulpit-steps, hurried into the thickest of the congregation 
and was lost in the crowd. The next afternoon. Rose 
and the earl were there ; the intervening time had been 
spent by her in sad, heart-breaking retrospect — by him, 
in a vain effort to find the whereabouts of his protege. 
But they were doomed to disappointment — the preacher 
was a stranger. 

The next day the earl told Rose he had determined to 
find Guy, and they devoted the morning to the effort. 
They discovered that the monastery at which the monk 
was staying (for he was not resident in Venice, but had 
come from a house in Dalmatia) was in a different part 
of the city from the Saluta church, and, of course, on a 
different island. Thither Rose and her guardian repaired, 
to learn that him they sought was too indisposed to see 
them. The next evening, however, he was in the pulpit, 
though evidently suffering very much, and very weak. 
His sermon was short, and at the end he disappeared as 
quickly as he had done before. The same answer was 
returned when they sought the monastery — he could not 
see them. 

The next evening he looked scarcely able to hold him- 
self up, and his voice was weak and broken, but the elo- 
quent words poured from his lips and held his hearers 
spell-bound. Towards the end, however, his strength 
failed, and as he descended from the pulpit, gave way 
entirely, and he sank upon the last step, unconscious. 

In an instant Rose and the earl were at his side, and 
raising him from the ground. The crowd seemed to 
understand without words that he was in the hands of 
those who had a right, and dispersed quietly. The Eng- 
lish lady lingered, but Rose told her that the monk was 


CHAR TER IS, 


257 


her cousin — one whom they had lost sight of for many 
years, and had not yet been able to speak to. Therefore 
there was nothing she could do — and she, too, left them. 

When Guy opened his eyes again he saw only Rose and 
the earl bending over him. A monk of his order stood 
near. He had hurried up to render assistance, but the 
earl told him the sick man was an old friend whom they 
had not seen for a long time, and begged him to leave 
him to them. He drew aside and waited. 

So, when Guy opened his eyes again, their gaze rested 
on the sad, sweet face of Rc^ Forrester. A smile passed 
over his own, and he turned to the earl. The weak hands 
made an effort to clasp his, and the pale lips uttered but 
one word : 

‘‘Father!” 

“He is calling you, my lord; he is your son,” said 
Rose quietly, as she raised herself and made room for the 
earl. Straithness looked at her bewildered, then at Guy. 

“ Father, I am Guy I take me to your heart for the 
little time that is left I” 

Again the pale lips spoke, and at the sound echoes from 
the far-off past awoke in Guy Charteris’s breast — the name, 
the voice, those soft pleading eyes — he knew him now. 
He gazed long and fondly into the emaciated face. 

“ My boy ! my Guy ! Have I been so blind all these 
years ?” 

He did not ask any explanation ; he knew his son was 
restored to him, — how, it mattered not. Restored to him, 
alas, only to be taken away again in a longer and a final 
parting. For even as he bent over him he saw the change, 
and knew he had found him but to lose him. He turned 
and beckoned to the monk. Following the mute direction 
of Guy’s eyes they carried him to the grand altar, where 
the lamp was burning, and laid him upon the step of the 

22 * 


CHAR TER IS. 


258 

sanctuary. Charteris held his head in his arms, and Rose 
knelt with one hand clasped in both of hers. The monk 
bowed himself and recited the prayers for the dying. 

Guy opened his eyes once more, looked fondly up into 
his father’s face, signed to Rose, and whispered, “She 
will tell all.” 

Then he turned towards the altar, his lips moved in 
prayer, his eyes closed and they thought he slept ; but 
presently the hand Rose held grew cold ; without a strug- 
gle he had passed away, and the sunlight pouring in 
through the painted windows flooded with a sad glory the 
marble face of the dead. 


CHAPTER II. 

Rose told the story as Guy had requested. And when 
she finished the recital, and placed the MS. in the earl’s 
hands, she left him without a word. She could not plead 
with him for forgiveness for her father. The injury had 
been too fearful, had entailed too terrible consequences 
upon the innocent victims for her to dare utter an excuse 
for the perpetrator. She had no claim upon the earl, as 
she had had upon Guy, to make her bold. 

The shock was a great one, and Straithness did not 
recover from it as quickly as he would have done had he 
been younger, but not for one moment did he dream of 
visiting Sir Gilbert’s sin upon his child. 

Rose, when she left him, had sought her own room to 
give full vent to her grief and sorrow. She bowed her- 
self down to the ground, and her whole frame shook with 
sobs. 


CHARTERIS. 


259 


“ Rose, my poor child, my daughter !” 

She looked up to see the earl standing over her. She 
drew herself to her knees and covered his hands with 
kisses, but he stooped and raised her and clasped her to 
his breast. 

Over and over again did she tell him of Guy’s struggles 
and sufferings, and how his own words, “Iheo has filled 
his place,” seemed to build up a wall between them, which 
his son dared not attempt to overthrow. And as he felt 
that he had himself been the means of driving his first- 
born from him, he bowed his gray head upon his hands 
and wept the bitterest tears ever wrung from the eyes and 
heart of a man. 

Guy, Viscount Rochdale, was buried in the Franciscan 
habit ; but his remains were transported to England, as 
were those of his mother, and rest beside Margaret, Coun- 
tess of Straithness, among those of his name who had 
gone before him. 

Immediately after Guy’s death. Rose wrote to Theo to 
meet them in Rome, and he, fearing something had hap- 
pened to his father, hastened to obey. As soon as he 
arrived he was told the sad story in part. The grave of 
Clare had been visited and all arrangements for removing 
the remains made before, so there was no clue to the date 
of her death to pain him. Charteris was anxious to spare 
Theo as much as possible, and to save him all unnecessary 
knowledge, hoping some arrangement could be made for 
the future. 

The sad story was soon known far and near, and the 
church at Charteris visited for many a day after by curi- 
ous crowds eager to see all that remained of the romance. 

When the case was laid before the lawyer who had 
succeeded Mr. Upham in the management of the earl’s 
affairs, he looked grave for a moment, but after a few 


26 o 


CHARTER IS. 


questions as to the dates and the time of the two events, 
in a few words dispelled their fears. By comparing the 
difference of time between New York and Rome, and the 
hours at which Clare’s death and Charteris’s marriage 
occurred, it was found that the former event occurred 
just four hours before the latter. Thus the painful ques- 
tion was settled, and Rochdale need never know what a 
narrow escape he had made from losing name and title. 

Guy, Earl of Straithness, is an old man now, bowed 
with the weight of over seventy years. His son with his 
family have left Scotland, and make the Manor their 
home, for the earl must not be left alone. His worldly 
affairs are in order, and he calmly awaits the summons 
which must come to all, sooner or later. Feeling sure he 
was doing what Guy would have wished, he gave Fernlie 
to Malcolm Maitland’s wife, and Mrs. Maitland, finding 
Lizzie so handsomely dowered, made her will leaving the 
Evergreens to Lillie, whose marriage with Jack followed 
soon upon that of Malcolm’s. 

The O’ More was a wanderer for many years, and when 
at length he did settle down upon his estates, he kept 
bachelor hall in true Irish fashion. 

Lady Worthington resides mostly at the barony. Her 
hair is blanched before the time, but the lovely face has 
lost none of its beauty, and her tall, graceful figure, clad in 
simple black, with the gray curls clustering over the placid 
brow, is greeted with blessings from her humble neighbors 
wherever it is seen. 

She, too, is waiting. 


THE END. 


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the dramatic unity of Reade and the 
graphic power of George Eliot.” 
Columbus (jO.) yourtial. 


Gold Elsie. From the German of E. Marlitt, authof 

of “ The Old Mam’selle’s Secret,” etc. By Mrs. A. L. 

WiSTER. Fifth edition. i2mo. Cloth. $1.50. 

“A charming book. It absorbs “A charming story charmingly 
your attention from the title-page to told.” — Baltimore Gazette. 
the <nd.” — The Home Circle. 


Countess Gisela. From the Gennan of E. Marlitt, 

author of “ Gold Elsie,” etc. By Mrs. A. L. Wister. 


Third edition. i2mo. Cloth. $1.^0. 


“There is more dramatic power in 
this than in any of the stories by the 
same author that we have read.” — H. 
O T imes. 

“ It is a story that arouses the inter- 


est of the reader from the outset.”— 
Pittsburgh Gazette. 

“ The best work by this author.”— 
Philadelphia Telegraph. 


Over Yonder. From the German of E. Marlitt, 

author of “ Countess Gisela,” etc. Third edition. With 

a full-page Illustration. 8vo. Paper cover. 30 cents. 

‘“Over Yonder’ is 'a charming! ant of the merits of this author will 
novelette. The admirers of ‘ Old I find in it a pleasant introduction to the 
Main'selle’s Secret’ will give it a glad j works of a gifted writer.” — Daily Sen- 
reception, while those who are ignor- | tinel. 


The Little Moorland Princess. From the GciTuan 
of E. Marlitt, author of “ The Old Mam’selle’s Secret,” 
“ Gold Elsie,” etc. By Mrs. A. L. Wister. Fourth edi- 
tion. i2mo. P'ine cloth. ^1.75. 

“ By far the best foreign romance of up to its balmy influence.”— CA/ira^. 
die season.” — Philadelphia Press. Evenmg Journal. 

“ It is a great luxury to give one’s self 


Magdalena. From the German of E. Marlitt, 

author of “ Countess Gisela,” etc. And The Lonely Ones 

(“The Solitaries”). From the German of Paul Ileyse, 

With two Illustrations. 8vo. Paper cover. 35 cents. 

“We know of no way in which a either of these tales.” — Indiafuipolh 
leisure hour may be more pleasantly Sentinel. 
whiled away than by a perusal oi 




















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